my somber heart seeks you always
by finaljoy
Summary: The Great War woke a devil in Matt Murdock. This is why he bare knuckle boxes. This is also why he cannot love Claire Temple. But when she runs afoul of some gangsters, Matt must involve himself or risk losing her entirely. Dancing around his feelings was far easier when death, his friends' well-placed meddling, and a corruption scandal weren't involved. (1920s/non-powered au)
1. between the shadow and the soul

_AN Should be writing this? Uhm, no. But listen. I'm a history major. I love the 20s. I love Daredevil. There was no way I could_ not _write this. Just trust me, I'll take you places._

 _Since this is a no powers!AU, please note that **Matt has his sight**. His blindness is interpreted in other ways :) Historical notes will be at the bottom of the chapter when necessary._

* * *

Matt had been told once that the others boxers found it strange that he prayed before each match. He was surprised they had noticed the rosary folded neatly in his clothes, the way he crossed himself before shedding his father's newsboy cap and shirt and preparing himself to fight. He was surprised, and yet not. He was a little too savage for God, in their eyes. Each bare-knuckled punch was too rough, each drop of blood shed too brutal. They all knew Matt Murdock wasn't asking for safety or seeking a win, not with the reckless way he fought.

Which was true. He was praying that the devil in his chest wouldn't break loose.

The Great War hadn't been kind to many people. Europe was a heaving ruin, decimated by machine guns and poison gas. A part of Matt still felt lost over there, drowning in the mud and darkness, clawing and screaming for a way out. He didn't know how to fix it, couldn't hope to ignore it, so he channeled it the only way he could: in a boxing ring with someone that could fight back.

It worked, for now.

Matt and his opponent circled each other, breathing heavy after a few long rounds. Matt's lip bled freely, but he didn't bother to smear it clean. They were past the experimental, toying with each other stage, something brutal and relentless pounding through them. Matt's opponent jolted in to attempt throwing him to the ground, but Matt slammed off a few devastating punches to the man's sides to get him to pull away. He eyed Matt, earning a slow, bloody smile.

Matt finished the fight in the next thirty seconds. He stabbed off two quick punches, then threw the man to the ground. The rough, disjointed gasp as the air rushed out of his opponent was more satisfying that the referee declaring Matt the victor.

Getting out of the ring was always the worst, whether Matt won or lost. The sense of belonging that felt so _right_ , that felt so justified and fulfilling disappeared once the fight was over, leaving him vaguely sick. The shouts of the crowd around him were jarring, suddenly smothering him as he edged his way through. The farther he walked away from the ring the more his injuries started acting up, a perverse enticement to go back, to find another fighter, to win again and again and _again._ Two fights. That was enough. He could walk away now.

Matt inspected his split lip with his tongue. It felt hot and tangy with copper. That was fine. As long as it didn't leave a bruise, he could get away with it in the office. Karen always clucked when he wore his lawbreaking on his face, as it apparently made a bad impression on clients seeking respectable legal representation.

He wiped the blood away from his face to keep any from falling onto his clothes. His hands felt clumsy as he put on his undershirt, his collared shirt, did up his tie, then finally tugged on the newsboy cap. Fights were still running, the ramshackle rings attracting loose groups of people to them. Despite all of its flaws, Matt appreciated that Roscoe Sweeney's bare-knuckle operation never required anyone to fight longer than they wanted. If they won a match, they could continue down the line of contenders until they quit or they lost. Few places in Hell's Kitchen could claim the same.

"Red, you quittin' already?"

Matt turned to find Frank Castle on the edge of a crowd. He was dressed down for a fight but didn't have any new bruises, making Matt think he hadn't gotten into the ring yet (or his opponents had been _very_ unlucky that night).

Frank was a fellow war veteran that had chosen to punch his demons into submission. Matt had seen him around the hall for a few months without ever speaking to him, but their formal introduction had come in the form of a match. The two of them had gone for five rounds before Matt decided their senseless beating was going nowhere, and let Frank throw him to the ground. Frank was declared the winner, but Matt caught his tiny nod of respect over as the crowd's screams.

Matt sighed with a shrug. "Can't go into the office looking like a wreck."

Frank scoffed and glanced around the hall. People were yelling, jostling each other, placing bets, jeering at the fighters. The chaos didn't bother Frank. Matt didn't know for sure what he did outside the boxing hall, but his grim vigilance said he never let himself stop fighting. Rumor said it normally took form of terrorizing rum runners, but Matt wasn't ready to commit to that just yet.

"Hey, you see Claire around here?" Matt asked. Just like that, Frank's attention was back on him. He stared at him for a long moment, inscrutable as he examined Matt's face.

"Nah," he finally said. "Velasquez kid didn't show, so she didn't come."

Claire Temple was the acting nurse of Sweeney's boxing hall. She had initially come to help Santino Velasquez, a young fighter Sweeney had personally recruited from Spanish Harlem. Claire claimed that Santino would have been beat to pieces if she wasn't there to check on him and clean him up, but that care eventually extended to anyone who bothered to ask. Still, she only made an appearance when Santino fought, and even then she wasn't a certainty.

Claire was caring, deliberate, and blunt. And brave enough to walk into an illegal boxing hall by herself, much less one that required her to leave her native Hispanic neighborhood and brave an Irish one. Matt had known before ever speaking to her that she was something beyond special. When he _did_ speak to her…it reaffirmed the idea, to say the least.

Matt lifted his head. "Maybe next time, then. Take care of yourself, Frank."

"Piss off, Red," Frank said, turning back to watch the fight.

Matt left the boxing hall, checking his lip again to make sure it hadn't reopened. He settled into his coat and walked through the dark of the city. It was late, but the streets still hummed with life. The street lamps buzzed, the occasional car clattered down the road, voices sometimes slipped from apartments. This part of Hell's Kitchen was too worn for a speakeasy, so none of the liquor-fueled revels bled onto the streets. Instead the neighborhood was dressed with faded laundry and dirty tenement buildings crammed into every nook and cranny.

Matt's street was a little more respectable than the area that housed the boxing hall. The road was clean, the laundry hidden from view, and the smell of the outhouses stuffed between buildings didn't ooze through the air.

One job. That was all it took. One job and a stroke of luck, and he wasn't some poor Irishman scraping by in a disparaging job.

Matt climbed the steps to his apartment, slipping the newsboy cap from his head. The last thing he wanted was for a nosy neighbor to see him and start gossiping about why he was dressed like a grubby factory worker when he had such a respectable lawyer job. He was always juggling lives, now. He couldn't be a lawyer in the ring, couldn't be a brawler at home. Couldn't be honest anywhere, it seemed.

Except for in the solitude of his apartment, and maybe sometimes around Foggy and Karen. But even then he wasn't _entirely_ honest. How could he be, when he was hiding the ugliness the war had carved into his soul? Still, he wouldn't trade anything for the support his two only friends offered. Matt didn't know what he would have done if Foggy hadn't supported him through the war and back.

(He probably wouldn't have _made_ it back, if he was being honest.)

Matt didn't bother to turn on the lights as he closed the door behind him. He had had to adjust to doing things in the dark. Sometimes, when he had been waiting in the trench, the night had seemed like only thing he would ever know. Black, black, smothering night filled with the murmur of German and the whisper of his allies trying not to make noise. He still dreamed about that. A sickening darkness he could never tear away from his eyes, that had so effectively climbed inside him while he had been away…

Matt pressed a hand against his face. It took a few seconds, but he managed walk to the refrigerator for something to put on his lip.

* * *

"Good morning!" Karen chirped as Matt came through the front door. She looked as sunny as ever, red lipstick smile wide, blonde bob just so. Matt squeezed out a smile, trying not to think how exhausted he must have looked in comparison.

"Anyone come in, yet?" he asked.

"Not any _one,_ but you did get a delivery from that Jersey newspaper office."

"Oh, great," he said, hanging up his hat and coat. Matt took the folder of papers Karen handed over. "Foggy in yet?"

"No, but he mentioned something about checking in on Mr. O'Ryan's family today, so I'm guessing he went before work."

"Yeah, catch him before he heads off to the docks," Matt murmured, scanning the papers.

"What'd you put on that split lip?" Karen asked after a moment. Her voice had officially moved from perky to disapproving. Matt suppressed a sigh.

"Something cold last night," he said, trying to dismiss her concerns. Brushing Karen off hadn't worked so far, but Matt was optimistic.

She sighed and pushed her hair back from her face. "Why do you even _go_ to those things? Prizefighting is—"

"A hobby," Matt said briskly. "Thanks for the papers, they're just what we needed for the Dugan case."

She slumped back in her chair, scowling at him. "I'm just trying to help, Matt. At least find better care if you insist on seeing our clients with a face like _mincemeat._ "

"My nurse wasn't on duty," he said. He shrugged in a ' _what can you do?'_ sort of way, earning a glower as he retreated to his office.

Karen Page was less than the typical secretary, but also much, much more. She didn't look like the conservative, future-mother-of-five type that was usually hired in offices. Her hair was short, she wore makeup, she spoke her mind, and she had an astonishing knowledge of white-collar crime. She was exactly what Nelson and Murdock needed.

"Good morning, my cohorts!" Foggy called, clattering through the front door. "And what news do we have today?"

"The Jersey newspaper coughed up that article we were asking about," Karen told him.

"Excellent! Matt's got it? Alright, thanks Karen!"

Matt continued to scan the Jersey news clippings until Foggy reached his doorway.

"Hey there, partner. It's polite to say hi _before_ someone has to come hunt you down for it," Foggy said, leaning against the door frame.

"I mumbled it when you came in," Matt said, eyes still on the papers.

Foggy huffed, but came closer. "What do those say about our Mr. Dugan?"

"They say he was in Atlantic City being kicked out of a hotel on the night of the fifth."

"Excellent!" Foggy snagged the stack of a papers out of Matt's hands and perched on the edge of his desk. He looked up with a frown. "Y'know, I never thought a news article publicly shaming our client would ever be considered a good thing."

"When it's that or being sentenced to a couple years in prison for armed assault, it's great," Matt pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

"True."

"Hey, guys," Karen said, poking her head around the corner. "A reporter from _The Bugle_ just called about the Dugan case. I turned him away, but just know the vultures are _swarming._ "

"Will do," Foggy said, turning fast and compulsively smoothing his hair flat. Foggy had had his hair cut the month before, trimming the sides short but leaving the top long. He hadn't cared about it until Karen mentioned she thought it was nice, and now Foggy had been relentless in trying to make it look perfect any time she walked past.

"Has it just been _The Bugle_ so far, or has there been anyone important?"

"No one else has contacted us outright, but I've heard that someone from _The Harlem Echo_ has been sniffing around."

" _Harlem Echo…_ isn't that a black newspaper?" Foggy asked. He glanced between Matt and Karen for confirmation. "Why would they care about _Dugan_? He's not exactly the height of political or human interest articles they could be writing about."

"I know, that's why I didn't bother to mention him. The reporter was Ben Urich, I think, if that means anything."

"No." Matt shook his head as he thought. "Keep an eye out if he starts pursing things a little more, alright? We don't want to be broadsided by some scandal Dugan hasn't told us about."

"Sure thing, boss," Karen said, then disappeared back to her desk.

"How come she only calls _you_ 'boss'?" Foggy hiss-whispered, whirling back to face Matt.

"Because I actually _act_ like her boss, while you try being approachable and not leer-y."

"Okay, I am not _trying_ ," Foggy said, pointing a finger at Matt. "I am _always_ approachable. And am I seriously leer-y? Am I gonna have to prepare some sort of defense plan when she's had enough and throws her typewriter at me?"

"I don't think we're quite there yet," Matt laughed. He took back the papers from Foggy and stood up from his desk.

"Okay, good. You're my eyes and ears on this. She's never gonna suspect your involvement, buddy oh pal of mine," Foggy said, lightly punching Matt on the arm. Matt huffed out a laugh, then hissed as his lip split opened.

"Whoa, sorry, guess I don't know my own strength," Foggy said, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"No, it wasn't you," Matt said. He grimaced and ran his tongue over the cut. "Just…last night, at the hall."

" _Oh_ , right. Who were you fighting?" Foggy had a strange fascination with Matt's bare knuckle boxing. He fundamentally disagreed with unnecessary violence (which was convenient, since it was _very_ much necessary in Matt's case), but he was unfailingly awed by the fighters. He had insisted on coming with Matt once, and had left wide-eyed and practically speechless.

"Guy named Lancaster."

"Did ya win?"

"Yeah."

"If it weren't your life on the line, I'd almost be tempted to start betting on you," Foggy mused, watching Matt dab at the blood on his lip. "Don't tell Karen I said that."

"She was just fussing at me about getting hurt, so I doubt your potential gambling habits will come up."

"Karen's right, though. Take it easy, okay pal? You said there was a nurse there? Visit her more often."

"She wasn't there last night," Matt said, trying not to let his voice be testy as he answered the question yet again. He would have gone to Claire if he'd had the option. He probably would have gone, even if he hadn't been hurt.

But things were no longer so simple as a quick conversation between matches. Her brown eyes were serious and lovely, like she could see past the bruises and bloodstains on his skin to find something desirable. And she…she was wonderful. From each pinned curl to her wide, beautiful smiles, she was so, so good. So much better than he could ever be, before or after the war. It was probably for the best if they didn't…if _he_ didn't…

Foggy left Matt's office, snagging the Dugan file yet again and chattering about how Matt needed to take care of himself. Matt sat in the sudden quiet of his office for a moment, then shook himself and got back to work.

* * *

 _AN Hats were indicative of class at this time. Flat caps or newsboy caps were worn by the 'lower class', such as dock or factory workers. The middle class (like Matt) wore fedoras or trilbies, while the upper class wore homburgs or top hats._

 _Most ethnicities had exclusive services in their neighborhoods that catered specifically to themselves, ranging from markets to newspapers. Black newspapers were the largest and oldest non-white papers being run, starting back in the late 1800s. They were often more politicized than the average newspaper, focusing on problems that affected black communities in particular. There are still newspapers aimed toward specifically black people, but now it's more marketing choice than societal need._


	2. carry on and be fine

_AN I love Claire. I also love her relationship with Santino! We don't see him more than a couple of times, but I get the strong impression that they're close._

* * *

Claire buttoned up her coat, doling out orders to her younger cousins.

"Alejandra, please make sure the dishes get done before school. And Emilio, you walk with her all the way there, don't run off to play with the Martinez boys. Alfonso," she said, catching the boy by the shoulders, "make sure your siblings stay in line, okay?"

"Sure thing," he said, giving her a sweet smile. He was fourteen and already asking to be called 'Alfie' to sound more American than Latino. His parent were less than thrilled.

"I'm not sure who their mother is, you or Maribel," Reynaldo, her brother-in-law, said. Claire made a face at him as he did up his vest.

"I take the morning shift," she told him. Her sister normally stayed up late washing laundry so her eldest, Carmen, could return it the following morning. Maribel and Claire's mother, Soledad, stayed up to help, but it wasn't uncommon for all the lights in their little apartment to go out early in the morning.

Reynaldo scoffed and shook his head. He kissed his children good-bye, promising to see them after school. In a few moments, Claire and Reynaldo were walking down the small halls of their tenement building. They joined the small stream of people in the hall, a seamstress and a waiter mingling with the crowd trudging to work.

Claire's family was lucky in that they all found jobs in shops or the safety of their home, away from the hustle and grind of the factories or docks. She doubted that would last, though. It was looking more and more likely that Carmen would have to apply to a tobacco factory, despite Reynaldo's efforts of finding her a position with him at his café.

The streets were already buzzing when they stepped out, unaffected by the still cool April weather. Newsboys called out headlines, the occasional car or truck trundled down the road, children played games before heading to school, and always, always, people marched to work.

"Will you be home early tonight?" Reynaldo asked.

"I don't think so. Santino said he'd head back to the ring."

"Why do you indulge him?" he asked, giving Claire a serious look. "He could get himself _killed_ out there _._ The man who organize those matches, Sweeney, I've seen his dog fights. I wouldn't be surprised if he treats his fighters the same way."

"Santino knows what he's doing," Claire said. "He's not going to get in the ring with anyone serious."

"Everything feels serious when you've got men called things like ' _Iron Fist'_ or ' _Punisher'_ going a few rounds."

"He's not doing it for fun," Claire pointed out, deciding it was best to not mention that 'Iron Fist' and 'Punisher' were _hardly_ the worst men in the boxing hall. "You know his mama's not been working since she got sick. He's just picking up a little extra when he's not at the factory."

"How he even has energy for that, the hours he works…" Reynaldo muttered, shaking his head.

"We all get by the way we know how," Claire said.

"So, on that topic, why don't you stay home and help _Maribel_ make a wage?" Reynaldo asked.

Claire resisted the urge to heave a sigh aloud. Reynaldo had an uncanny ability to connect any two points he wanted flawlessly. Then again, she should have seen this round of offense. He'd only been bringing it up every few days the last couple of weeks.

"You're getting nothing for wrapping bandages around those men, and it's honestly a miracle no one's tried to hurt you, yet."

"They wouldn't let me get hurt," Claire dismissed.

Granted, a couple of men had tried harassing her a few weeks back. Santino had been there instantly, bristling with rage and ready to break their teeth. Several of the Irish boxers had also stepped in, her consistent compassion having earned their respect. The thing that had made her stomach flip, though, was that Matt had been key among them. The daredevil of the ring might have been brutal and animalistic in a fight, but he was nothing short of a gentleman when it came to her defense.

She liked to think it wasn't just because he seemed to need her help every time she came, but it was ridiculous to assume that. It wasn't like she had proof. A few soft smiles and the barest of touches didn't count as anything, not really.

(But oh, if they could.)

"How do you know _that?_ " Reynaldo demanded, stepping around a dog investigating a pile of trash.

"I'm the only one that's actually _bothering_ to wrap those bandages around them," she pointed out.

"You're a _tailor's assistant,_ Claire. Stitching cloth is not like stitching skin."

"I know. But a little human kindness is always nice."

"Absolutely. And don't get me wrong, I'm glad you care. Just remember that taking care of yourself and your family is more important than strangers."

Claire huffed out a breath and stopped to face him. "I told Santino I'd go. We'll deal with tomorrow later."

"Sounds like a policy for nothing getting done."

"It'll be _fine,_ Reynaldo," Claire insisted. "I know when I get in over my head."

He grimaced and let out some sort of grunt that said he did not believe her. He worked his jaw and looked across the street, then shook his head. "Just…promise me you'll actually ask for help when that happens," he grumbled, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"I promise," she said.

They were quiet the rest of the way to the tailor's, their differing opinions smothering conversation. When they stopped outside of the tailor's shop, Claire made sure to kiss him on the cheek and wish him a good day to show things were fine between them. He shook his head and smiled, offering her one last wave before he melded into the crowd.

"Good morning," Claire called as she stepped inside. She slipped off her hat and coat as she went, draping them over her arm until she reached the coat stand in the back. "Mr. Solano?"

"Oh, good morning, Claire," the owner of the tailor shop, Mr. Solano, called. He poked his head out of the back room as she came closer, smiling at her. "I almost didn't hear you, I was just finishing up on the phone."

Mr. Solano was a portly man with a meticulous eye for detail. He was kind, if a bit fussy, and always let Claire go a little early if she had to take care of her family.

"Were they ordering something new?" Claire asked. She edged around him to hang up her hat and coat, then faced him.

Mr. Solano shook his head, smoothing down the kerchief in his vest pocket. "No, no, it was simply one of our private customers. He was setting up an appointment this afternoon."

"Will you need help?"

"No, it's just a single suit fitting, nothing more," he said, shaking his head for emphasis.

Solano Tailoring mainly catered to the working class of their neighborhood. However, Mr. Solano did occasionally make house calls for wealthier clients that couldn't be bothered with going to the shop. Claire had gone with him a couple of times to fit women for dresses, but normally she was left behind to tend the shop. She liked escaping to the upscale neighborhoods, liked seeing all of the space between homes. The only empty space she normally saw were the empty lots after a building had burned down, and even then laundry was strung across the gap, the homeless congregated to beg for money, and children played there after school let out. Very little was empty for the sake of aesthetic.

"Alright. When is the appointment?"

"A little after noon. I shouldn't be gone too long."

Claire smiled and nodded, then went to redress some of the mannequins.

Claire's day went from well enough to frustrating in the span of a couple of hours. A woman stormed in and shouted about their shoddy workmanship. Claire tried calming her down, but her accusations went from being about the establishment in general to Claire in particular. She handled the insults until the women made the obvious leap of accusing Claire of negligence to insinuating her working in a shop meant she was incapable of taking care of a family. Mr. Solano intervened at that point, finally herding the woman out with a mountain of apologies and explanations and promises it would never happen again.

"I didn't ruin her dress," Claire said, torn between yelling at the sky and throwing something. But, as usual, Claire took the safe route and kept herself in check. "I swear, her dress was _fine_ when I finished it. I don't know _how_ the side seam ripped like that, but—"

"I don't want to hear it," he said, jerking up a hand like he could dam her words in her throat. "Just…finish restocking the shelves, please."

"Mr. Solano, you _know_ I'd never be so careless," she insisted, panic starting to set in. People had been fired for less.

"Claire. Not now. I need to see our private customer," he said, disappearing into the back. Claire followed him, sidestepping the out of use mannequin to reach his office.

"But she was—"

"Claire, I said _leave it alone!_ " he snapped.

She froze, making herself bite back further protests. Mr. Solano sighed and pulled on his coat. Claire waited as he adjusted his sleeves. She couldn't remember the last time he had raised his voice, much less toward her.

"I'm sorry. Please, take care of the shop. I…I'm late to see our customer."

"Yes, sir," she said. Hopefully a polite, demure response would help her case later.

Claire restocked the shelves with the new bolts of cloth after Mr. Solano left, then swept the floor. She had wanted to slap the woman the moment she started pointing her finger in Claire's face and accused her of failing her job. The dress had been beautiful, smoothing out the woman's figure to make it look more boyish as the latest trends demanded, but not eliminating her curves completely. More importantly, it had been the first outfit Claire had made on her own. She had been so careful, determined to make the dress exceptional.

But Claire hadn't slapped the woman. She had forced out a smile and tried to politely explain and correct and not pull her own hair out of her skull. She had done the proper thing and probably kept her job because of it.

She sighed and rested the broom against the counter.

Claire was tired of biting everything back. Newspapers, magazines, and advertisements were always talking about the new independent woman that was sweeping the nation, but the thought made Claire laugh. Women shearing off their hair, partying all night, and parading around in shockingly short skirts _couldn't_ exist, not when her own life was such a staunch haven of conservativism.

At the same time, she found herself craving the freedoms of these imaginary women. She wasn't interested in the scandalous behavior of flappers, like drinking or smoking or going to a necking party. Claire only wanted to do and say what she wanted when she wanted. She wanted to pin her hair up into a bob without her mother sucking her teeth and casually condemning 'those disgraceful girls' that actually cut off their hair. She wanted to be able to tell off a customer without worrying about losing her job. She wanted her family to accept that she wanted to help people, even if the only ones available were boxers that broke the law. She wanted to tell Matt Murdock very openly that her heart leaped with excitement every time he walked over.

Claire propped her elbows on the counter and put her head in her hands. That _especially_ was unlikely to happen. It was kind of funny, though. Everyone was screaming about change now that the Great War had finished, but some things were going to always stay the way they were _._ Like what color skin was acceptable for a person to be seen with.

Hell, _any_ difference between people was grounds for trouble. The marriage between her Hispanic Puerto Rican mother and Afro Cuban father had been cause enough for strife from their friends and family, and that was with most of the world thinking they looked the exact same.

No, Claire's life now was more static than ever. News of her fathers' death overseas had been the last big change she'd seen, and that had been almost five years ago. Since then, things had simply settled. Claire wanted that sense of freedom more than she could say, but it also came with the terrifying thought of disrupting the calm that had developed. She couldn't justify unsettling everyone's lives just so she could speak her mind.

Claire managed to slog through the rest of the day, apologizing to Mr. Solano for her outburst when he returned. He nodded and waved his hand at her, though Claire couldn't tell if it was to dismiss her worries or the apology. He mumbled something incoherent, then disappeared into the back. She worked her jaw, then put on a bright face for a customer walking in.

Claire was relieved to escape the tailor's shop for the day. She buttoned up her coat against the breeze, steeling herself before marching into Hell's Kitchen.

She had only been partly truthful with Reynaldo that morning. She did go to the boxing hall to make sure Santino didn't get pulverized in the ring, but the boxing hall was also the only place she could be the person she wanted. There was some unspoken rule that the expectations of the outside world didn't apply between those four walls. Anyone inside could fight and drink and gamble and speak their mind and not take nonsense. It was stupid and reckless and undeniably dangerous, but it was all Claire had. She could help people and be honest, just like she wanted.

The city changed around her, the flavor shifting bit by bit. English replaced Spanish as the dominant language, gruff orders and conversations were overwhelmed by jazz music and screams of laughter. She ignored the men and women slinking into the hidden speakeasies for the beginning of a fun night. She sometimes wondered what it would be like to spend hours dancing the Charleston and drinking some ambiguous liquor (even in her idle fantasies she wasn't rich enough for the fine whiskey from Canada), instead of wiping away blood and applying cool packs. And what would it be like if she was always at home, preparing dinner and helping the kids with homework?

Claire slipped from the now quiet, grimy streets of the Kitchen and into Sweeney's boxing hall. There were more men gathered than usual, which was surprising so early in the night. Fights normally didn't begin until later.

She took off her hat. There were fewer rings than normal, a few scattered around a large central one. A decent crowd had already gathered around the fight, blocking her view of the boxers.

Santino was throwing a few warm up punches near an outer ring. He broke into a smile when he saw her and jogged over.

"Hey," he said. Hearing him speak Spanish always felt a little jarring when surrounded by the cacophony of men yelling in English, the normal sound of home even as it reminded her that they did not actually belong.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"Sweeney's trying to start a new type of fight. He's got two of the best bare-knuckle boxers to fight each other like it's a normal match."

"So he's having one big match that draws money away from the boxers fighting," Claire surmised. She cast a critical eye over the sparse crowds around the other rings.

"And he still takes a cut of everyone's winnings," he agreed glumly.

Claire sucked her teeth. She had met Sweeney all of once, and his oily manners had left a bad taste in her mouth for days. She was hardly surprised he would come up with some scheme to short the fighters that came to his hall, but it still riled her.

"Are you going to fight, then? If tonight is going to have such a bad turnout wouldn't it be better to wait?"

"Well, I'm already here, and I'm pretty sure I'll win…" he mused. The prize for winning a match was a percentage of the amount bet on the outcome. With so many betting on the big match in the middle, it would be unlikely that Santino would win even five dollars. Which was admittedly enough to get a week's worth of groceries, but was also its own form of gut punch when he had been expecting a reward closer to _ten_ dollars.

"Alright. Be extra careful, though. It looks like the safe fighters aren't the ones ready to fight."

"Murdock's not watching," Santino pointed out, gaze settling on something over her shoulder. Claire looked around, skin prickling at the mention of his name. She couldn't see him, though she wasn't sure if that was a relief or not.

"I…don't think it's a good idea to fight him, Santino," she said. "He's a good man, but he doesn't exactly pull his punches. You'd have to take him down fast, and he's tough."

"Yeah, I know. But if it's a choice between getting knocked out in the first round and getting knocked out in the fifth, _then_ getting torn apart while I'm unconscious…"

Claire hissed out a sigh through her teeth. Reynaldo's lecture seemed a little less pious, now that she was faced with the risks of being there.

"Hey, Spanish!" someone shouted at them. "Stop being sweet on your girlfriend and start the fight already!"

Santino waved in acknowledgement, but gave Claire a grimace in exasperation at Claire.

"Go ahead," she told him. "But don't take any wooden nickels!"

He gave her a brave smile and nodded. "Right, I know. Money's not worth it if I can't do anything after."

Claire patted him on the shoulder, then retreated to her usual position on the edge of the hall.

* * *

 _AN_ _Living conditions for immigrants were a serious issue at this time. Tenement buildings were crammed in together (typically there was a gap of six feet between buildings) and made tall to accommodate as many people as possible. Clean running water and proper garbage disposal was an issue all the way up to the 1930s, despite laws passed to improve conditions (such as the Tenement House Act, which demanded there be one bathroom per twenty people, and every apartment having windows). Things were compounded as many immigrants lived in multi-generational homes. Claire's family of about ten people living in a small apartment (composed of two rooms; a bedroom and an open living space) wasn't unusual at the time._

 _Ethnic enclaves really took hold around this time, as a new wave of immigrants came to New York. Spanish Harlem wasn't technically labeled such until the 1930s (at this point, it was Italian Harlem), but I'm using the term here for convenience sake._


	3. fighting little battles

_AN Thank you everyone for the kind response so far! It's very encouraging, and I'm excited to take you all on this wild ride with me :)_

* * *

Claire folded her arms as she watched Santino climb into the ring. His opponent was about ten years older than him, thin but covered in muscle. He had tattoos indicating he was in the navy. The man sneered at Santino, trying to get into his head.

She let out a slow breath as the referee addressed the small crowd. Santino was a good boxer. He'd learned how to throw a punch when he was barely a teen, though he had only used the skill for protection rather than persecution. His fighting career had begun when he hung around the prizefights in Spanish Harlem a few months ago. Claire had only discovered his hobby when she found him stumbling through the hallway one night, eye blackened and nose bloody. She had clicked her tongue and helped him clean up, muttering that his mother would have her head if she knew. Once Mrs. Velasquez became sick, though, Santino had insisted on going more and more often. Factory work was respectable compared to illegal prizefighting, but it could hardly pay for medicine.

Things had changed when Roscoe Sweeney scouted Santino from his back alley fighting and offered him a place in a real (though illegal) boxing hall. Santino had gone to Claire for advice, and even though every bit of her screamed Sweeney wasn't to be trusted, she also knew that it was a good offer.

In the end, Santino had gone to Sweeney's hall, Claire hot on his heels. She would have liked to think that Sweeney had crossed neighborhoods and ethnic borders because of an altruistic desire to give Santino a better chance, but she was too smart for that. All he wanted was a talented, exotic fighter to throw away when the crowds stopped coming.

Santino hadn't been excited when she announced she was going with him, but Claire set her jaw and dared him to keep talking. If he was going to go fight in a strange hall against a bunch of fighters with questionable backgrounds, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it alone. Also, Claire knew that Santino was less likely to take stupid risks with her breathing down his neck.

Claire watched as Santino and his opponent exchanged a few sharp punches, just enough on each side to get the small crowd cheering. She had learned that bare-knuckle boxing wasn't about raw aggression and lawlessness. It was precise in its attacks, feral in its quickness and strength, but not sloppy. A punch gone wrong in an official boxing ring had the safety of a glove to cushion the blow. A punch gone wrong in a prizefight resulted in a broken hand ( _if_ the fighter was lucky).

Punch, punch, Santino's mouth began to bleed. A quick kick to the shins and a warning from the referee, another punch. The sailor's eye was swelling shut. He grabbed Santino into a hold, trying to wrench him to the ground. Santino struggled to get free and almost lost his feet, but then he jabbed the sailor in the ribs.

Claire turned away. She could stomach the horrid aftermath of the fights, but she could not watch two people brutalize each other.

The big mach in the middle was between rounds. The two fighters glared at each other from their respective corners, while the crowd tossed and yelled. The men jumped back up at the referee's signal and again Claire looked away.

Santino managed to knock his opponent out at the beginning of the third round. Claire let out a sigh of relief. He had won. He could take his winnings and go. There was no point for them to stay when the cost of fighting outweighed the benefits. Claire waved at him after he had collected his prize and he obediently shuffled over.

He sat on one of the benches lining the hall as Claire checked the damage. He was still thrumming with adrenaline and victory, the infectious high giving him a big smile. She ran a damp rag over the cut on his eyebrow and tried not to scowl at his black eye. She needed to talk him down. The _last_ thing any of them needed was this boy getting addicted to the buzz of a win.

"So what are you gonna tell your mama this time?" Claire said in Spanish, hoping that his native language would draw him away from the atmosphere of the fight.

"I figured I'll dodge her a few days until the bruises fade," he said, giving her a cheeky smile.

"Good _luck_ ," she scoffed, dabbing his split knuckles. He flinched and she flashed him an apologetic look, but kept going. The only anesthesia they had there was unconsciousness. "Your mama can _smell_ trouble from down the block. Once her nose clears up and she can take a real breath, boy, you're in trouble."

 _"_ Yeah, yeah. _Hey,_ Murdock!" Santino called, switching to English mid-sentence. He leaned around Claire, throwing his hand up in a wave. Claire turned reflexively, stomach clenching at Matt's name.

There he was, just come from his own fight. He had his back to them, his shoulders cutting a distinct swathe against the people around him. Matt turned to look at Santino, almost animalistic in the fluidity of the action. He hesitated a moment, then walked over. Matt had this way of creeping across the ring when he fought, every step calculated and light until he sprang on his opponent. The fact that he was doing it now meant he was still in the fight, if only with his body and not his mind.

"Santino," he said, nodding at him. His eyes wandered to Claire and stayed there. His arm was curved defensively against his chest and he had a vicious bruise growing on his cheekbone. "You win?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "But the takings are small today."

Matt nodded, gaze finally drifting away from Claire. He didn't seem to be focused on anything.

What did Matt do with his winnings? He didn't have the desperation of people that needed the prize money to survive. His rawness was different.

"Matt," Claire said. She felt his attention snap back to her, but she made herself wait a moment before looking up from Santino's injuries. "If you want, I can look at that cheek of yours."

He hesitated, glancing around the hall again. "I've…got a couple more fights," he said, shrugging. "Maybe after those."

"Okay," she said, making herself smile. "It's your face."

Matt nodded and walked away, shortly followed by Santino. Claire sighed through her nose and said a quick prayer that he would be safe. Both of them.

A few more men passed through Claire's care, the last of which was Frank Castle. He was a quiet man, speaking only in mumbles and growls. He was a monster in the ring, making up for any lack of technique with sheer savagery as he beat his opponents into submission. She wasn't certain anyone had managed to knock him out yet, and only a handful were persistent enough to throw him.

He was restless as Claire cleaned off a cut near his mouth, constantly shifting to watching the place. Claire braced her hands on her knees and glared at him. He came to her just rare enough that she managed to forget he was an _awful_ patient until after he sat down.

" _Look,_ " she said, ducking her head to try and meet his eye, "if you wanna go watch the fight, get up and walk away. I only take care of people who _sit still._ "

Frank clicked to attention, all that feral energy locked on her. He reminded her of Matt that way, only edgier. He stared at her for a moment, then gave a slow nod.

"Sorry," he grunted. "Go ahead."

Claire gave him a warning look, then resumed dabbing at his face.

Out of all the men in there, Frank was probably the most dangerous. Not to her specifically, but Claire knew in her gut it was a _bad_ idea to cross him. There were rumors in the hall about him. Apparently, he liked to take on the gangsters of the city, using his expertise from the war to raise hell. Claire would have denied it in just about every instance, but after sitting less than a foot away from him…well, it was more than enough to change her mind. Anyone with that sizzling blackness in their eyes had to have something more than bare-knuckle boxing to their name.

"What's got you so riled up?" Claire asked.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Sweeney's rigged the fight."

"What?"

"The big one in the middle," he said, bobbing his head toward the crowd. "Paid Murphy to go down. I'm just waitin' to see when."

"How do you know?" Claire glanced at the middle ring like she expected a sign detailing Sweeney's trickery.

"Can smell it on Murphy. He's jittery, a fox in a hole tryin' to figure out if he really doesn't wanna go down."

"You think he could win?"

"Hell yeah," he scoffed. "Murphy could clean Lewinski's shit any day. S'just Lewinski's a big favorite with the Poles, and Sweeney's trying to sweeten them up."

"How do you know this?" Claire said again, trying to keep her voice level. There was a weight in her stomach that she didn't like, not only because it gave an infuriating amount of credit to everything Reynaldo had been saying earlier.

Frank watched her for another long moment, deciding what to say. "I pay attention, is all."

Claire leaned back, shaking her head.

"Rigging fights feels a lot more serious than some wholesome illegal boxing," she said, hoping she sounded more on the sarcastic side of glib. Frank was probably the kind of creature that could smell fear.

"Nothing's wholesome with a shitbag like Sweeney."

" _That_ I believe," she sighed.

Claire wound the roll of bandages in her hand. She watched the crowd, like maybe they would become ghoulish at any second. She found Matt near the back, sporting a new bruise on his side. He glanced around and met her eyes. Claire thought he might walk over, but he slowly turned back around. She let out a long breath.

Frank watched her, the crystalline intensity back in his face.

"What?" she asked.

"Somethin' happen between you and Red?"

Claire blinked, not sure what to say. Frank leaned, somehow even more serious than he had been a few seconds ago. Her face heated at the implication (if it even _was_ a proper implication). If _only._ Claire could barely imagine what it would be like to be with Matt, though something in her gut said ' _wonderful'._ But they always pulled themselves back from the brink, nullifying their tiny touches and almost nonexistent flirting before they made a mistake. Claire kept herself in check because that was begging for trouble she _did not_ need, and Matt… She didn't know why he didn't let things go farther. She wasn't sure she _wanted_ to know.

She turned the sound into a scoff and waved her hand like she could shoo away Frank's suspicions. "Nothing's happened. Why're you even thinking about that?"

Frank's expression remained solemn despite her pointed nonchalance. He looked like he was chewing over her words, then shrugged. "Just feels like there's somethin' going on here. I wanted to make sure it was okay."

"And what would you do if I had said yes?" Claire asked, rolling her eyes to show this was _not_ a serious issue.

"I'd make him rethink doing anything shameful."

 _Matt Murdock, you are lucky you're a good person_ , Claire thought, letting out a startled breath.

"Like I said, I pay attention," Frank said, finally leaning back. He ran his hands over his pants, preparing himself to get up.

"Right. Well, the absolute most he's done is irritate me by letting himself get hurt in fights."

"Yeah," Frank said, heaving himself up from the bench. "Makes no sense why he gets hit so much. He's fast enough to dodge and he doesn't let himself get angry when he's tagged, so there's no point in taking the damage."

Claire stared at Frank as he walked away, wondering just how much of the world he saw. What secrets did people tell with the tiny looks and minute gestures of everyday life? As he melted into the crowd, Claire noticed that Murphy went down.

Matt came to see Claire after most of the spectators had bled away. He was quiet, slouching as he straddled the bench to face her.

"You lucky tonight?" she asked, frowning at the bruise on his side.

His eyes were distant as he shook his head.

"You lost?"

Matt took a moment to find her, gaze dragging up to her face as he shook his head again. "No, I won."

"Huh. Don't know how that counts as being _unlucky…_ "

The hall was quieting, slowly draining of its people. Everyone seemed spent after the main fight, the audience completely uninterested in betting on anyone else. The leftover boxers trickled away, disappointed at their poor prospects. It felt late without the people in the hall, the quiet gaining a tired sort of quality.

Matt smiled as she finished spreading Vaseline on his cheek. The expression looked tight, like Matt didn't actually mean it but he wanted to. "Just trust me on this one, Claire."

"If you say so. Now, when you get home I want you to put some vinegar on that bruise."

"Vinegar?" he repeated, wrinkling his nose.

"Mm-hm. It makes the bruise fade faster. Of course, if you didn't get _hit_ so much…"

"I'm working on it," Matt said, handing her one of those cheeky sideways smiles he did so well.

"Yeah? Frank Castle thinks you're _letting_ yourself get hit."

"That right?"

"Swear it is."

Matt huffed out a laugh and shook his head. Claire smiled as he pulled on his undershirt, noting that wasn't exactly an answer. She watched him for a moment, eyes skating over the muscles, the smeared away blood, the myriad of fading bruises.

"You look tired," she said, tilting her head at him.

Matt glanced up from buttoning his shirt and shrugged. "I work long hours and then I go fight people. Not the best for sleeping. You don't look much better, though."

Claire laughed and shook her head. "I work long hours and then go help the crazy people like you who _choose_ to go fight. Plus, I have to help take care of my family."

"You have a family?" Matt asked, eyes flickering away from her face for the briefest moment.

She watched him, weighing her answer. Claire could make this a game, could flirt with him and be perfectly fine. But Frank's words lingered in her head, making her self-conscious. She didn't want to be the dumb Dora that threw herself over someone that was completely uninterested.

"Didn't sprout from the ground," she said, mouth pulling in a half smile.

"So it's your immediate family, then," he said, nodding in understanding. "Brothers, sisters, parents, that stuff."

"Why?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Then again, Matt probably wasn't _completely_ uninterested. Her heart was thumping harder and harder as they edged out of the safety of double entendre and into something far more specific.

Matt's smile turned coy, telling her that he wasn't backing down from this anytime soon. "I'm curious, is all."

"What about you?" she asked, settling her hat over her carefully pinned curls. "What about your family?"

"Don't have any. My parents died when I was younger."

"I'm sorry," she said, softening instantly.

"Don't be, it happens. So," he said, the words quick and meaningless as though he had just brushed them from his sleeves, "what about work? What does our miracle worker do during the day?"

"I work in a tailor's shop," she said, glad she didn't have to name a factory as her employment. It was stupid, but she wanted Matt to think more of her than the dingy over-crowded machinery that processed fish or tobacco.

"That sounds very nice," he told her. His smile was genuine enough to make her insides tighten.

Claire glanced down at her lap. They were facing each other, the scant distance between their knees its own form of no man's land. She needed to leave. Santino was waiting for her outside, and she had promised herself that she would help Maribel when she got home. But Claire liked being able to speak to Matt without having to scream over the fights or worry about the rough looks or words constantly thrown in their direction. The empty hall cast a shell of privacy around them, lacing the moment with the safety of being alone.

Matt had a slight layer of scruff on his face, the day's growth adding to his look of exhaustion. Claire had to clench her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out to touch his jaw. She licked her lips and looked down. Maybe leaving was a good idea.

"Some of your hair's come loose," Matt murmured, regaining her attention just as his hand raised to fix the lock.

Claire dragged in a breath as his hand hovered by her hair. His expression became intent, gentle in a way she had never seen before. She stared at his hand, transfixed as it edged toward her hair. He had never touched her before. Not like this, not with him reaching out to her for no valid medical or pragmatic reason.

She bit back a shiver as he tucked the strand of hair back into her hat. His fingertips were warm, barely touching the skin of her ear. Claire's hand jumped up to fix it, her thin amount of control suddenly shattered. Her hand bumped against his, the contact sparking through her like lightning.

Claire swallowed, face on fire. Her half-hearted attempts to speak vanished as Matt leaned in closer, his face now less than a breath away. His fingers were still tangled in hers, but they fell free to touch her neck, the heat of his hand thrilling against her skin. Claire swallowed, leaning in to him, barely able to think as his lips neared hers, imagining what it would feel like even before—

Matt never kissed her. His mouth stopped just before hers, tantalizing and heartbreaking as his breath trailed across her skin. His hand dropped from her neck, too fast and yet too slow an action.

"Claire…I'm sorry, I can't," he whispered. He sounded choked.

Claire glanced down, face hot again. They leaned back. Claire swallowed. Matt stood up and put on his hat. She stared at her lap, her coat crunched in her grip.

Claire shuddered in a breath to steady herself. She looked up in time to see Matt leave the hall. He seemed very alone as he walked through the door, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

She stood up, slid into her coat, and put away the sparse medical kit. She glared into the locker before she closed it, clenching her teeth to keep the tears from falling . She couldn't do anything about the horrible, gutless sensation that had replaced her giddiness from a few seconds before, so she focused on breathing. Breathing she could control. Breathing she could rely on.

It took a few long moments, but Claire got herself under control. She apologized to Santino when she found him outside, surprised that her voice remained so steady. She didn't tell him anything as the walked home.

* * *

 _AN Damn, Matt, at it again with the not ever letting yourself be happy._


	4. aftermath

_AN If you've been longing for some of Matt's messy, self-hating headspace...this is the chapter for you._

* * *

Matt sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Nightmares, all night. He had thought— _hoped—_ they would fade after a while. But still they came, agonizing darkness that smothered him, slunk across his skin, squeezed the life from his bones. Granted, they were happening less often, maybe a couple of times a week rather than every night, but their intensity had never lessened.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Five years. Five long, relentless years. Maybe it was time to resign himself to the idea that he might _never_ go back to how he had been before. The war had caused some intrinsic damage to him, maybe he just had to accept that. After all, his best solution to the problem was to escape the civility of his office and throw himself into the brutality of the ring every week.

Matt heaved himself off the bed and stumbled to the shower.

Nestled in beside the horror of the war was Claire. Claire, a strange and precious jewel in the grit of bare-knuckle boxing. Claire, who was so intoxicating that he sometimes managed to forget that he only went to the boxing hall because it was the one safe place for him to go feral. Claire, whom he had almost let himself kiss.

Matt still wasn't sure how it had happened. When he had first sat down beside her, his head was full of the seething wrath that had broken free only minutes before. Matt had gone feral in the ring, devastating his opponent until someone had dragged him away. His knuckles had been stinging and bloody with savage satisfaction.

Then he had started talking to Claire, and her gentle, sarcastic banter had eased everything else from his mind. She had been lovely, from her teasing conversation to her hair pinned in countless curls. Even though she was clearly exhausted, her smiles had been sweet enough to make him wonder what they tasted like.

Thankfully, he had called himself back before he made a complete disaster of things. Her expression had been one of shocked hurt, but he knew in his gut that it was better this way. He couldn't trick her into thinking he was suitable to be cared for like that. Normally, Matt kept his barbarity in check, but the devil had a way with him that made up for every second of lost time.

If they'd met before, if he had just been a law student and she merely a tailor's assistant, Matt liked to think things might have worked out. He would have gladly taken on the odds with her, defying social convention if she was willing to have him. But there was _no way_ he could justify putting her through a social gauntlet as well as condemning her to loving a broken man.

No, not broken. A man whose bones had been forged from Hell itself. Matt couldn't put anyone through that.

He got ready for the day, pulling on clothes and making breakfast without really seeing anything. There was a persistent ache in his throat, like his body was resisting his efforts to breathe.

Work wasn't enough to distract him. Thoughts of Claire and how they could never be kept sloshing around in his head. Claire had been so pretty, a curl of long dark hair hanging loose next to her face, the scent of her lavender soap heavy in his nose. It had been a herculean effort to pull back and resist kissing her, but he had done it. That counted for something. He just didn't know what.

Dugan swung through the office unexpectedly, boisterous and irreproachable as he groused and guffawed over their warnings to keep a low profile. Dugan was a character in and of himself, wearing a thick mustache and bowler hat that barely contained his verve. Matt had no idea how he managed to come back from the Great War with so much energy. Matt mostly felt like sleeping and never waking up.

"Really, though, Mr. Dugan, you _need_ to be careful," Foggy insisted as he walked with Dugan to the door. "Newspapers are beginning to poke around, and a simple assault case can _easily_ become complicated with all of your drinking and, you know, assaulting."

"A couple of bar fights never hurt _anyone_ ," Dugan dismissed, shaking his head.

"Except for the guy whose arm you broke," Karen sniffed from her desk.

Dugan turned to look at her, surprised delight making him grin. "Baloney! If he was man enough to take it, he would've been fine. I warned him not to start anything, fair enough."

"Unfortunately, none of that is admissible in court," Matt countered. "Please, Mr. Dugan, try to contain yourself until _after_ the case is over. You just have to last a week."

"Yeah, yeah," Dugan grumbled, tromping out the door.

Karen snorted and continued sorting through her papers once the door swung shut.

"You were _encouraging_ him," Foggy said, wheeling around and pointing a finger at her.

She looked up at him, eyes wide in perfect innocence. " _What,_ me?" she asked, pressing a hand to her chest. "I'd _never._ "

"How you're not exhausted by him, I'll never guess," Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I think he's funny, in a zany sort of way. I mean, how many people do you know can go from flirting to talking about bar fights in under a minute?"

"But you don't _like_ that, right?" Foggy asked, fidgeting with his suit cuffs. "I mean, it gets kinda suffocating after a while, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yeah, certainly," Karen said. She stood up and carried the stack of papers to a filing cabinet. "It's not actually going to _work_ , but it's cute that he tries."

"Oh. That's…comforting," Foggy said. He looked torn between sighing in relief and wilting while Karen's back was turned.

Matt mentally shook his head. This was why he rarely went to the pictures. The ongoing saga of Foggy hopelessly liking Karen was drama enough.

"Why?" Karen asked, facing them again. She raised a teasing eyebrow as she leaned against the cabinet. "You got a girl you've been scoping out?"

"You got him," Matt said, interceding before Foggy literally exploded from embarrassment and anxiety. "Foggy Nelson, about to sweep some unsuspecting girl off her feet with bravado and a heartfelt suggestion of lawbreaking."

"I'll admit I _was_ a little surprised Dugan led with going to a speakeasy while standing in a legal office," Karen said.

"Yeah, I usually scope people out before bringing them to Josie's," Foggy said.

"Ugh, but that's _barely_ a speakeasy," Karen laughed, walking back to her desk.

"But still you went!"

" _Desperation,_ Mr. Nelson. Not because I think it's the bees knees."

Matt shook his head and retreated to his office now that Foggy was back on level ground. He tried following up on one of their cases, but his mind kept skipping, stumbling back through the same things. Claire's breath on his face and his bone deep exhaustion and the ugly rush of the ring and the simple emptiness of his apartment and the ruthless pleasure of winning and the endless careworn prayers that had stumbled past his lips, all shot through with the devastating dark of the trench.

Matt ground his knuckles into his forehead. He needed to work through this. He _would_ work through this.

He picked up his pen to continue adding notes. Each word was laborious and didn't make sense, requiring re-reading and long pauses to understand.

 _"Shit,_ " he hissed, scribbling out his notes and throwing his pen down. He glanced up to see Foggy staring at him from his doorway. Heat flashed through Matt's face as he registered Foggy's shocked expression.

"Did I catch you at a bad time…?" Foggy asked weakly.

"I—uh—no, it's just…didn't get a lot of sleep last night, is all."

"You okay, though?" Foggy stepped into the room and eased the door shut. "You've been a little off all day."

"Really, just not getting enough sleep. Give me a good weekend to rest up and everything will be Jake."

"Now I _know_ something's wrong," Foggy said. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, settling in. "You only talk about taking a break when you want to get me off your back."

" _Foggy_ —"

"Have you been having nightmares?"

"Not _been having._ They're happening less, I told you."

"But you had one," Foggy insisted.

Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face. He hadn't told Foggy exactly what happened in his dreams, knowing that the horror and the smothering silence and the dark of the trench wasn't something anyone needed to hear about. Especially when Foggy had been saved from the war by being ineligible for the draft. His father had died the year before, leaving all of his family dependent on him. Combined with Matt's vague, cautionary letters from overseas, Foggy had known things were too horrible to even contemplate. But he knew those horrors even existed, which was its own little form of comfort. At least Matt didn't have to deal with everything alone.

"Yeah, last night. It was bad."

"How bad?"

"Not the worst."

Foggy sighed. "I'm sorry, buddy. That's…it's just terrible."

"Like I said, not the worst thing I did all night," Matt told him, a thin smile on his face.

"What? You really lose a fight or something?" Foggy asked. Matt didn't miss the way his eyes strayed to the new bruise on Matt's face.

"No."

The face of his opponent the night before flashed to mind, misshapen, covered in blood, pathetic as Matt slammed in every blow he could get before he was dragged away. And to think he had been that wild moments before almost kissing Claire.

"I…kinda made a mess of things with a girl."

"Girl? Girl? I haven't heard anything about a girl," Foggy said, perking.

Matt laughed and shook his head. "There hasn't been anything to hear. She just…I dunno, it wasn't right, I guess."

"She turn you down?"

"No. It just wasn't right."

Foggy watched him for a long minute, chewing over his thoughts. He sighed and smoothed his hands over the front of his navy vest. "Well, Matt, I think the only thing you really can do is try to _make_ it right."

"That sounds ideal," Matt said, not even bothering to hide the miserable longing in his voice.

If he could have corrected things with Claire, if he had the ability to purify himself of the monster he harbored, he would have done it in a second. But he couldn't. The only thing he had found so far was regulating himself through boxing, but clearly that wasn't enough. Not when Claire's safety came into question.

Foggy sighed like he was giving up and shookhis head. "At least try, okay buddy?"

Matt forced out a smile and nodded.

He couldn't fix himself, but he could attempt to explain things to Claire. They wouldn't work out, he just had to give his reasons why and hopefully she would accept. Matt was keenly aware that _explaining_ didn't actually count as _fixing._ He couldn't go back and kiss the soft hurt from Claire's face for having pulled away. He couldn't even promise that he would never pull away again. The best he could do was show her that none of this was her fault.

The next few times he went to Sweeney's boxing hall, Claire wasn't there. Matt kept himself from asking about her, forcing the words to stop up in his throat. No one else needed to know what had happened. Santino wasn't at the hall, either, making Matt think (entertain the slightest hope) that maybe she stayed away for reasons other than him.

The thought didn't actually help much.

He felt edgy when he went into the ring, his murmured Hail Mary clunky and disjointed as he got ready. Matt wondered if his opponent, an older man named O'Connor, could see it in his eyes. The other spectators and boxers called him the daredevil of the ring, reckless and confident as he endangered himself for a victory. Matt privately thought anyone willing enough to climb into a ring with him was the real daredevil. He hit people to make them go down. No amount of praying changed that.

O'Connor gave the first blow. It was good, connecting with Matt's chest and knocking the air out of him. It was also enough to settle him into the fight. O'Connor danced away, but Matt came in fast. He slammed out two punches, both shaking up his arm and rattling his ribs. O'Connor stabbed out a few frantic blows to keep Matt away. Matt dodged, blocked a blow, and cracked his jaw with his fist.

O'Connor panicked, going in to grab Matt by the waist and throw him. Matt smashed his fist into O'Connor's back again and again and again—

"That's the round, you lay off him for fifteen seconds, _then_ go," the referee yelled, shoving the two of them apart. He had a heavy accent, probably no more than a year out of Ireland.

Matt slunk to his corner, waiting. He didn't feel the crowd around him, barely noticed someone forcing him to drink water, someone else wiping blood from his face (it wasn't his). He could only feel his heartbeat, heavy, dangerous, unyielding. He was going to break O'Connor next round.

The second round began, and Matt crept forward, feeling out every step. O'Connor hung back, nervous then—

Matt knocked aside both jabs, punched his side, and swung him into the ropes. O'Connor tried blocking but Matt pushed his arm away, kicked the back of his knees, then smashed home a blow to his face.

O'Connor crashed into the side of the ring. He moaned but didn't get up.

Matt shouldered through the crowd before the referee finished announcing the winner. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't—that was _savage—_ winning had felt so _good_ , but—

"Murdock! _Matthew!_ "

He sucked in a breath and looked around. Santino jogged over, his curly hair bouncing slightly with each step. The boy was always a little too bright-eyed for Sweeney's hall. Matt wanted to take him aside and tell him to leave bare-knuckle boxing, find a decent place to train like Fogwell's if he wanted to keep fighting. But he knew that wouldn't work. Santino was only there to raise money for his mother's medicine. No matter how good a boxer he was, he would leave once his mother was better.

Which was probably for the best. He deserved something more than broken bones and back alley doctors before (if) he established himself.

"Uh, hey," Matt mumbled.

"You were _great_ in that last round. I knew you were fast, but— _wow_ , blink once and you miss half the fight!"

"It wasn't really a fight."

"I know! How do you know to block him so fast?"

"You just…feel it, I guess. Forget everything and you just…focus."

It had taken him _months_ of tedious focusing with his old trainer, Stick, to master it. Matt hoped Santino wouldn't be boxing for half so long.

"Hey, is, Claire here?" Matt asked, heading off any more ill-fitting praise.

"Claire? No, she didn't come today. Did you get hurt? I didn't think he landed more than a couple blows."

"No, I—I need to talk to her," Matt said. He watched Santino, straining to figure out if he knew anything. They were practically brother and sister, so she might have mentioned…

"Oh. I don't know when she'll come back. She doesn't really plan when she comes here."

Matt chewed on his cheek. He couldn't let the matter sit much longer. If he was going to bring it up, it needed to be soon. He didn't want to chance waiting until she eventually came back, and pushing the subject through Santino sounded like a bad idea. Which meant Matt would have to go to her.

"Is it important?" Santino asked, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

Matt lifted his head, forcing a lighter expression onto his face. "Hm? Oh, no, Nothing to worry about. She asked me something and I wanted to follow up."

"Oh. Okay, well, I'll tell her you've got it, then."

Matt forced out another smile and bobbed his head. "Anyway, I'm headed out. Take care, Santino."

"Always do!" he called, even as Matt walked away.

Matt's hands were slow as he wiped the blood from his face, pulled on his clothes, and slid his winnings into his pocket. He never liked the cash prizes for fighting. He didn't like that he was rewarded for turning into an animal. 'Prizefighting' always felt like too tame a word, too noble and kind. The matches weren't a contest of strength or ability for him. It was a ritual, a purge.

But Matt knew that attracting attention was a bad idea in this part of the Kitchen. He could be a strange combination of ruthlessness and religiousness when it came to fighting, but deviating outside of that was where he found trouble. The men around him were only family by culture until he labeled himself as too good for their daily struggle.

He slid his father's newsboy cap onto his head, then left the hall. The rosary in his pocket was a comforting warning as Matt's fingers traced the beads.

What was it like for Claire and Santino, he wondered. Lawbreaking was an effective equalizer, bringing together rich, poor, men, women, Italian and black and Irish and Poles and Hispanics. Borders still remained, though. How those two, decent, kind people could bring themselves to cross barriers, weather slurs, and keep their heads high… They both had a strength Matt could barely understand.

Claire. She had looked so wonderful, her pale purple dress flattering against her warm dark skin and lovely black hair. Wonderful and compassionate and straightforward. She deserved a lifetime of safety that couldn't happen with him. Not when their clashing skin tones would always make them stand out in a crowd. Not when he had a brutality he doubted he could ever truly control.

Matt tugged his hat brim a little lower and kept walking. His fingers were still tangled in his rosary, like maybe by touching something holy he could burn away a little bit of his sin.

* * *

 _AN Probably no one else cares, but I am very, very invested in the fact that Matt wears his daddy's hat. And that's his grandmother's rosary. I just imagine him to be a pretty sentimental guy when it comes to people he really cares about._


	5. intrepid and unexpected

_AN I am very excited for this chapter. Things start getting more momentum and we finally leap into the proper plot of the story._

Warning: A scene of graphic violence.

* * *

"Claire! I need you to help Alfonso with his homework so I can finish up the load of laundry!" Maribel snapped from across the room. Claire shot her a look, knowing it would say far more in the din of their apartment than a barked response.

Claire's stomach twisted when she saw that Maribel, despite her harsh tone, looked desperate. She had soap suds trailing up to her elbows, her curly hair exploded from its bun, and her face was flushed from continuous work.

"Maribel, I am making _dinner_ ," Claire said, trying to soften her own response. It wasn't Maribel's fault things were insane.

"Have Carmen do it! Just help Alfonso so _one_ of my children will leave me alone for two seconds!"

Claire grit her teeth as Emilio zipped by her with Alejandra, both yelling something inarticulate. "Carmen, finish the sofrito. Alfonso, what do you need help with?"

"Some English questions. I don't get what they're—"

Emilio and Alejandra raced past again, almost knocking a lamp off its shelf.

"That's it!" Claire yelled. She clapped her hands together, two staccato beats of ' _stop what you're doing this instant!'_ "Emilio, Alejandra, go outside! You keep this up I'll hide you myself!"

The two slunk out the door, leaving a ringing silence in the tiny apartment. Two rooms were to not enough. Claire sometimes fantasized about sleeping on the roof to escape her seven family members, but even then she wouldn't be alone. She would have to fight for space amidst the laundry and other people searching for escape.

Claire finished helping Alfonso with his homework, then moved onto Maribel with the laundry. She draped a shirt over the ironing board and began pressing it flat. Maribel flashed her a thankful look and kept scrubbing.

Claire ironed a few more pieces of clothing, guilt prickling through her stomach.

"I'm sorry I haven't been helping as much lately," she murmured.

Maribel glanced up, hands stalling in her work. "Where's this coming from?"

"If I were here more, I could help and you'd have more time to do other things. Look at us, we'll probably finish this before we go to bed," she said, waving a hand at the neat stack of clothes in a chair. "Instead, I'm usually off…" _Working for free. Risking myself around a bunch of criminals. Getting my heart broken._ "…being a good Samaritan."

"I hear Reynaldo speaking," Maribel said, giving her a knowing smile.

"He means well."

"Absolutely. But if you feel right _helping_ these men…then I think that's fine. Mama is helping me, so there's no need for you to worry."

"But I don't _want_ Mama working her fingers to the bone helping you!" Claire insisted.

"Claire, what's wrong?" Maribel asked, hand settling on her hips. "You've been short all week."

"I know, I know," she said, sighing and pressing a shirt collar flat. "I just…I don't know. It'll pass."

"Is Mr. Solano being hard on you?"

"No, he's fine."

Matthew damn Murdock was her problem. Claire tried to smother the moment when things had gone so horribly wrong, but she completely failed to kill the memories of stomach swooping excitement chased off by curdling dread. Every few hours it would stab back at her, distracting her from work, fanning her temper, and keeping her from sleep.

Why had he stopped? Why had he pulled away after getting _so close_? The only reasons she could think of was _maybe_ a fear that her brown lips might stain his white ones, but she knew that was wrong. Matt didn't care about that. So _why_?

"Claire, if it's not Mr. Solano, what is it?" Maribel asked after Claire failed to explain.

She heaved a sigh and set the iron down. "I guess…work _has_ been stressful. Mr. Solano…he's been short for the last week or so. It's probably just rubbing off." Thank goodness she had _some_ shred of truth to tell her sister.

"Is something wrong with the store?"

"No, business is fine. I think it's a private customer."

Maribel sighed through her nose. She set a damp hand on Claire's shoulders and squeezed. "It's okay. Bad days end, even if they last a week."

"You sound like Mama," Claire smiled.

"You say that like it's a bad thing!" Soledad said, coming through the door.

Her daughters laughed and continued doing the laundry as the older woman sat down. Claire tried to make her smile stick, but the memory of Matt's tired eyes made it slide right off.

* * *

Mr. Solano had been anxious all day. Claire had thought the previous week had been bad, but now he was practically frenetic, fidgeting and straightening and quadruple checking everything. It made Claire want to scream. He kept re-examining her work, clicking his tongue and muttering under his breath. His meticulous nature was charming when he was simply her friendly, slightly flustered employer. Now he was mother-henning her to an early grave.

Claire begged for a customer to walk through the door or the phone to ring or _something_ to take his mind off her. She had tried asking him what was the matter the last few days, but her only answer was a shrill bit of laughter and a quick insistence that she recheck the bolts of fabric on display.

 _Just a little bit longer,_ she thought, staring down the clock like that would make it go faster. The last hour had dripped by, the minutes passing in fits and starts. But now they just had a few minutes, just a few seconds before she was _free._

The door chimed, and Claire looked up in relief.

" _Welcom_ —" she began, then broke off in a strangled gasp.

Matt. _Matt_ was there, Matt Murdock, the boxer, the man that had almost but not quite kissed her. Her face burned at the memory, fueled by her horror.

"What are you _doing_ here?" she hissed in English, stalking around the counter to face him. He looked embarrassed like he fully realized what a trespass this was. And yet, there he was.

"I…I'm sorry for barging in. But I thought we should talk. You never came back to the hall—"

"We can't do this here, this is where I _work._ Get out!"  
"Claire—"

"Go to the back, around the corner! _Wait_ for me to come outside."

Claire practically shoved Matt out the door, desperate to get him out of sight. Matt thankfully obeyed, disappearing out the door.

"Who was that?" Mr. Solano asked, appearing from the back.

"Oh, no one! Just a guy looking for directions," she said, fighting to make her voice smooth.

Mr. Solano nodded at her for a moment, seeming disappointed at the lack of distraction. Claire smiled and wasted a couple of minutes pretending to clean to make him leave. She waited for him to get settled at his desk, then crept past his office to the back door.

" _Matt,_ " she hissed, glancing around for him. It was dark in the back alley, the mid-spring evening setting in fast.

Matt stepped into sight from behind some crates. She practically stomped over to him, confusion and hurt and panic stuffed away in favor of anger.

 _"Why_ are you here!?" she demanded.

He grimaced at the ground and Claire finally registered that he looked different. He seemed neater, somehow, more smartly dressed than he normally was at the boxing hall.

His clothes, she realized. They were finer than she was used to. It was slight, but she noticed he was actually wearing a coat for once, and not just dealing with the cold in his suit. And his hat. It wasn't the news boy cap she was used to, it was a fedora. When had he had time to update his wardrobe? Was _this_ what the fight winnings were used for?

"I told you, we needed to talk."

"How did you _find_ me? Did you check every tailor shop in Spanish Harlem until you tripped across me?"

"No, I'm a little more subtle than that."

 _"How?_ " she hissed, biting the word out instead of yelling like she wanted. "You're an Irishman beat purple in _Spanish Harlem._ "

Matt looked away. His hands twitched like they wanted to jump to the fading bruise on his cheek, but he smoothed the action by pulling off his hat. Claire hated herself for thinking he looked attractive in his new finery and without something haunted lingering in his eyes.

"Claire, I'm sorry. I just—the way things happened the other day…"

No. Hell, _no_. She was not going to ever talk about this, and certainly not in the back alley of her very respectable job.

"Look, it's really not something I want to discuss," she said, raising a hand to cut him off.

"Claire, make sure you finish cleaning up on time!" Mr. Solano called from inside.

She flinched and glanced at the door. " _Ap-ple-sauce,_ " she said, chewing on every syllable as she whirled to go back inside. " _Stay,_ " she commanded, shooting Matt a filthy look over her shoulder.

Claire hurried inside, straightening up the shelves and putting away her tools. Her mind kept buzzing back to Matt standing quietly in the back alley, fedora in his hands, apology caged by his teeth.

Why had he come, what was so serious about their near kiss that he had to track her down? He had waited a couple of days, so surely it wasn't horrendous? Or maybe he had been stalling, giving himself as much time as possible before slamming home the knockout punch.

Claire swept the floor, hands tightening around the broom as Mr. Solano nagged at her to get in the corners, then make sure she locked the door. If he could just _go away,_ she would be able to handle this without wanting to explode.

She stepped into his office under the pretext of getting the keys, then slipped outside when she saw he was on the phone.

Matt was still there, thankfully (or maybe not), waiting to finish whatever it was he had planned. She scowled at him as she came to a stop a few feet away, arms folded tight over her chest. Claire clenched the keys in her hand, the edges biting into her palm.

"What is this, Matt? Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to apologize."

"You already did that." Claire grit her teeth at the bite in her words. She hadn't meant to sound so hurt.

"…To explain, then."

"There is really no need," she said quickly. "I'm fine leaving things alone, Matt."

He glanced at the dark sky, expression unhappy. "I don't…I don't want you to misunderstand."

"What is there to misunderstand?" she asked. She still sounded embarrassingly upset. She needed to stop talking. Every word seemed to fuel Matt's determination to explain, to justify an event Claire would prefer to strip from her mind. "Things—we shouldn't have fooled ourselves. The end."

His face folded into another grimace, like her words personally pained him. Claire watched him, seeking every last twisted detail she could get. She wanted to soak up his presence, and yet also get as far away from him as possible. Her charade of being fine was wearing thin.

"Claire, did you lock the front door?" Mr. Solano asked, voice closer to the door than she would have liked. She stiffened, praying he wouldn't check on her.

"No, I forgot," she yelled back. She felt rather than heard Mr. Solano sigh, then looked back at Matt. "Just go home, Matt. It would probably be easier for both of us."

Matt's mouth tightened again. Claire turned to leave. She couldn't look at him anymore, not when he was so handsome and tragic.

The front door chimed open, and Claire heard Mr. Solano protesting to someone that the store was closed. She didn't hear the distinct words through the rumble of the men's response, but she knew it was her cue to leave. She thought maybe she should smile at Matt over her shoulder, offer some sort of false reassurance. She couldn't do it. Not when her heart felt like it was bleeding in her chest.

"Claire, just let me—I don't think it's like you expect," he began, reaching out to grab her arm.

A thrill shocked up her at the touch, but Claire kept herself in control. He was the one that had created the distance between them. For whatever reason, he thought they—

" _Claire,_ " he insisted, tugging her to him. She stumbled back, turning to right herself. Matt snatched his hands away, like he was embarrassed he had pulled her so hard.

Claire stared up at him, mouth pressed into a firm line. Matt shuddered out a breath and closed his eyes. Hesitating once again. She sighed, then stepped away.

"I need to help finish closing down the store," she said, unsure if he would be there when she came back.

Matt nodded, eyes on the ground. His expression had fallen into something sad, like he was disappointed in himself.

Claire walked inside, apologies to Mr. Solano primed on her lips.

"—I really don't think there's any need for this!" Mr. Solano was saying, voice high from strain.

Claire tensed, then slipped into his office. What was going on? Who had come into the shop, why did Mr. Solano sound so stressed? And why was he speaking in English?

"This is how it goes. You don't talk. Now we gotta make an example of you."

The men had hard New Yorker accents. Claire's hands clenched tight around the keys, heart thundering in her ears. She didn't know what was going on, but she was certain no one had noticed her come in. Could she slip back out to the alley? Could she even make her legs move?

"Please—please, no—I haven't done _anything—_ just tell him, tell Mr.—"

" _Hey,_ " another voice snapped, and foolishly, Claire hoped he might have come in to help. "We don't say his name."

There was a short scuffle and a shout of pain before the sound of someone spitting.

" _Snitch_ ," one of the men hissed, then there were footsteps and the pleasant jangle of the bell on the door.

Claire peeked around the corner, relief thudding through her when she saw the backs of the two men disappearing from sight. She crept out of the office, looking for Mr. Solano—

Claire bit out a gasp.

Blood. Blood seeping out across the floor, staining everything a cruel, sickly red. And Mr. Solano was lying in the middle of it, hand clasped feebly to his throat, the sickening gurgle-wheeze of his breath interrupted by all of that blood.

" _Oh my—_ Mr. Solano! What—you're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay," she said, dropping her knees beside him, stomach roiling at the gentle splash she made in his blood. Her head was filled with the ripping scream she wanted to lose, but she stuffed it down, ignored everything that wasn't reassuring the man before her. Everything felt too loud in her ears, the sound of his breathing, the cars in the street, the dull shuffle of the oblivious people outside.

"Cl-Claire," he managed, reaching a stained hand out to her. Everything "Cl—"

"No, no, shh, be quiet, it'll be fine—"

"Claire, we need to _leave_ ," Matt said, appearing behind her. She turned to face him, confused why he was there and relieved she didn't have to do this alone. His voice sounded so _calm_ , strange and stern and not panicking at all.

Mr. Solano touched her knee, ripping Claire's attention back to him.

"Mr. Solano, who did this?!" she demanded, hands pressing over the hideous gash in his neck like that would help. Blood stained his teeth and lips as he tried to speak.

"W-Wil—"

"Will I what? What is it?"

"Claire, _move,"_ Matt ordered.

"Desk—drawer," Mr. Solano whispered. He stared at her for a second, trying to work out another word. His eyes lost focus, though, and his hand fell limp onto the floor.

"Mr. Solano, no, no! Wake up, wake up!" Claire gasped, heart screaming in her chest as Matt shook her shoulder and she tried to hold back the tide and do something with the flickering pulse under her fingertips.

"Claire! _We need to leave_ ," Matt said, finally grabbing her up by the shoulders.

"He's not dead, I can still feel his heartbeat, if we get him to a hospital—"

"There is _no time_ for that," Matt told her, jerking her around to face him. He was pale and deadly serious, a bit of steel in his eyes she had never seen before. "We need to leave before those men come back _._ "

She stared at him, unable to process what he had said. She looked down, then blinked when she realized she had grabbed his suit for support. Smears of blood stained his dark grey lapels, strange, mocking shapes that said she could do _nothing._

"But—" She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Solano. A piece of paper was pinned to his chest. It said ' _rat'_ in big block letters. Claire thought she might be sick.

Matt forced her to move, pushing her to the back.

"Get your hat and coat," he said, pointing at the office.

She watched him, almost ready to vomit as he grabbed a piece of cloth and scrubbed away her bloody footprints.

" _Claire—_ " Matt bit off the word, pushing past her to the office, grabbing her things, then meeting her again in the hall. He wrapped his arms around her and half dragged, half carried her out.

The outside air felt cold, a harsh slap on her face after the suffocating warmth of the shop. Claire stumbled forward into the dark, confused at the cool wet on her front.

His blood. She had Mr. Solano's blood all over her, on her hands and arms and legs and clothes. She could just see the dark smears in the dull yellow streetlight. She gasped in horror, throat closing on the sound.

"Keep moving, Claire," Matt said, voice firm as he guided her down the alleyway.

She stared at Matt, barely recognizing his grim expression. Her breaths came in disjointed gasps. She couldn't think, she could only feel the disgusting slink of her bloodied skirt against her legs. But Matt was pushing her fast, not heeding her stumbles as he made her walk away from the murder.

Murder. She had just been feet away from a _murder._

Claire let out a choked sob. Matt closed his hand over her mouth, smothering the sound.

"Claire, listen to me," he said. He looked right into her face, their noses just inches apart. "You _cannot_ draw attention to yourself. You need to act like nothing's wrong. Here," he told her, holding out her hat and coat.

Claire put on her hat with shaking hands, chewing on her tears to keep from breaking down completely. She stumbled over the coat, though, the blue fabric looking delicate and innocent compared to her filthy, useless, bloody hands.

Matt slid off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. She frowned at him as he buttoned it up, hiding the worst of the blood.

"Keep it together, Claire," he said, voice still that same, distant sort of hard. She stared at him, breath shaking in her lungs. He seemed to soften after a moment, losing the sternness in his eyes. "It'll be okay, Claire. I'll keep you safe."

Claire wanted to say something, to thank him, or cry, or say the world had gone _mad_ , but he stole the words from her throat when he slipped his hand into hers. He didn't even seem to care that her hands were still slick with a dead man's blood.

* * *

 _AN and you thought this was just a cutesy 20s romance story_


	6. i will fear no evil, for you are with me

_AN Thank you everyone for the warm response this story has received! I've loved reading all of your thoughts and reactions. I can't wait until we REALLY get into the plot._

 _Chapter title is from Psalms 23:4._

* * *

Matt walked fast, his mind cold as he pulled Claire down the street. He didn't notice if they were attracting stares. Matt's only focus was on getting Claire to safety. His brain spun over what had just happened, trying to force it into order.

Claire's boss had just been murdered. Matt didn't know why (his Spanish was rusty at best) but it had been obvious that he had needed to get Claire out of there immediately. She had been hysteric, begging him to let her stay and help her boss. She had been so upset that she continued speaking in Spanish as Matt pulled her away.

Now Claire huddled in his coat as they passed under a light, the dull yellow glow casting heavy shadows on her face. She looked her own form of shell shocked, eyes hollow as she stumbled along beside him. She reminded Matt of a new soldier. They had all been bright-eyed before the shooting, the rain, and the despair started. Then they were left empty. He hoped she would be able to refill that light soon.

"Matt, Matt, I need to stop," Claire said, tugging on his hand. She was back to speaking English, but her voice was still shaky.

Claire broke out of his hold. She held herself tight, hands clenched away from his coat sleeves to keep from bloodying them. He noticed that she had the shop key clutched in one hand, like it had been fused there from horror.

Matt watched her for a moment, muscle memory clamoring for them to keep going, to not stop, to go until they had finished orders. He stared at the sky and let out a slow breath. He took out his handkerchief and picked up her empty hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low.

She glanced at him as he carefully wiped off the blood from her skin. "I—I—I don't know. I thought I might be sick, but that's passed."

He gave her a thin smile. Matt moved on to her other hand as she focused on breathing. He wanted to hold her until she stopped trembling, until she could look at him and genuinely smile, but he didn't know how. His training said he needed to keep dragging her forward, to keep her from getting even more bogged down in the horror of what she had seen. He had forgotten how to be gentle in calamity.

Matt held her hands for a long moment, staring at them and the blood he couldn't quite erase. He glanced up and met Claire's eyes. They were big and desperate, terrified of things she could not control.

Claire grabbed him into a hug, her fingers and the teeth of the key digging into his back. He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat at her fast, hitching breaths. He inhaled, hating that her soft, lavender scent was mixed with blood.

"It'll be okay," he whispered into her ear.

Claire didn't say anything, but she tightened her grip on the back of his suit. After a few seconds she let go of him and pulled her face from his shoulder. She stared at the ground a moment, then settled into his coat.

"I'm fine," she said. "Let's…let's keep going."

Matt frowned, trying to decide if she really was okay. Then he took her hand. This time, she made sure to hold his hand back.

They walked slow, using the night to hide themselves. Matt's mind continued to whirl through questions until a thought broke through the haze.

What was going to happen to Claire? Now that she was out of immediate danger, what was he going to do? Everything in him rejected the idea of leaving her, but what was best for her? The men that had killed her boss—Solano?—had walked in with the purpose of murder. So why hadn't they gone after Claire? Had they not known she was there, or was she simply not important? No, no one with half a mind would have left a murder witness, not without giving them a good reason to say quiet. Although, Solano _had_ been a message, if the word 'rat' pinned to his chest meant anything.

So why wasn't Claire?

They had to assume she was still in danger until they knew why Solano had been attacked. She couldn't go home and endanger her family. Plus, their panic would hardly be a balm on her destroyed nerves.

"Claire," Matt said, "do you know what might have caused this?"

They were by the water now, the muted mutters of the waves undercutting the clatter of cars and far off sirens. She stared ahead, face cast in shadow by the brim of her hat.

"No," she said. "Mr. Solano...he doesn't…he never would choose to get mixed up in something big."

So she had come to the same conclusion as he had.

"Until we know what happened, you can't go home."

She stared at him, worry in her eyes. "What, no, I—my family is expecting me! I can't—what will they think? I can't scare them like that."

"Claire, if you _are_ in danger, you can't bring it back to them. You need to stay somewhere safe."

"But if they—"

"I won't let them lay a finger on you," he said.

He held her by the shoulders, making her look at him. Claire stared into his face, uncertainty tingeing her expression. A smudge of blood was still on her cheek. She gave a slow nod, then a faster one. Her eyes dropped from his face, settling somewhere around his collar. He let go of her shoulders.

"O-okay. I—okay, then. Let's go."

Matt nodded. She slipped her hand into his this time, her grip tight as though he was the only thing holding her upright.

Matt closed his eyes. He shouldn't think that. Any slant he put on the situation, any perverse, selfish tarnish that took advantage of her need and desperation was evil. He was doing this for _Claire._ She needed a safe place to stay and he was her only option at the moment. He just had to forget how her touch made his heart leap.

The walk to his apartment was silent. Claire was burned out, her steps already tired and slow. Matt guided her through the streets, chest tightening as they neared his address.

"Here," he murmured, pointing at the building. She glanced up, a quick peek before lowering her face. No one seemed to have noticed her, yet, though that would change. Even bundled up as she was, there was no mistaking her darker skin.

They climbed the steps fast, slipping through the staircases until they reached his door. Claire stood hunched against the wall until he let her in. Finally, they were embraced by the unassuming dark of his home.

"The bathroom's there," he said, pointing off to the side. Claire nodded but didn't move. Her hands were still clenched into his coat.

"You'll get the bed tonight," he continued, mouth going dry as he considered the logistics. "For clothes, you can—"

"I'll change out of my dress, if that's okay," she said. It was hardly more than a whisper, but at least there was sound.

"Okay. You get cleaned up, then we can get whatever you need after dinner."

"And your coat, I got blood on it."

"It's fine, I'll—"

"No," she said. She shook her head, but didn't meet his eyes. "I'll clean it. Please."

Matt stared at her as she turned pleading, desperate for the distraction his permission gave. "Of course. Just…make yourself comfortable."

Claire nodded, again consumed by numb silence.

* * *

Claire stared at Matt's apartment. It was dark, only a few bars of streetlight tumbling through the window. All she could think was how _silent_ it was when he stopped speaking.

She had wanted quiet. Now she had it.

Claire walked through the neat living room, followed by Matt. He disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a bathrobe. She accepted it as he eased past, still so careful to maintain a reasonable distance between them. Not that he had on the walk back. The warm strength of his presence had stayed just under her fingertips the whole time. Now things were back to a hazy, hurtful distance.

Claire closed her eyes as he returned to the living room. She didn't want distance. She wanted him to hold her tight, strapping together her pieces with his arms until she didn't feel like falling apart.

Claire slipped into the bathroom. The room was comfortingly small when she closed the door. She set the key on the edge of the sink, vaguely surprised to find deep indents in her palm from the handle. She shrugged out of Matt's coat and set it on the back of the toilet.

The bathroom light made her appear sickly when she looked in the mirror. The blood on her hands didn't even look like blood anymore, just a large stain. Her reflection didn't seem like hers. The face was too pale, the hair too mussed, the clothes and skin covered and caked in a red-brown mistake.

Claire pulled off her dress and looked away.

She ran cold water in the tub and let her dress soak, then peeled off her stockings and threw them in. She picked up a washcloth off the rack. Claire's hands shook as she ran it under the tap, afraid to finally deal with the blood all over her legs and hands and face. She grit her teeth, though, and scrubbed herself down. The water in the sink turned murky and gained the smell of copper, but her skin became clean. Raw, cold, and rubbed pink, but clean.

Claire dabbed at the bloodied edges of her camisole. It wasn't bad enough her for her to need to wash it in the sink, and Claire didn't feel right stripping down any more than she had to. She already felt naked enough in front of Matt.

Claire sighed and set into Matt's coat. The blood came out easily, a few dabs of the washcloth and it was gone. She wrapped herself in his robe, picked up her shoes and coat, then left the bathroom.

Matt was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She didn't know if she would be able to eat. Her insides already felt so heavy, anything more might sink her through the floor.

She draped his coat over a chair to dry, then tucked her shoes against a wall. Matt turned and gave her a smile. He was more exhausted than usual, his eyes looking like they so badly wanted to close.

"It's not much," he said. "I didn't think I'd have any guests."

Claire gave him a waxy smile on reflex, then sat at the small kitchen table. His robe was a little too big for her, pooling up against her neck as she settled into the chair. She adjusted it, hand settling on her collarbones.

Everything was so clean in his home, each thing perfectly in its place. It was jarring after her own cluttered apartment, cramped and jostling with family. His loneliness made more sense, now.

Dinner was quiet. Claire was vaguely aware of a plate being set before her and the cold of the fork in her hand, but she didn't taste anything. Didn't feel anything, either. She was too consumed with Matt sitting across the table from her and her own persistent need to cry. Claire excused herself from the table.

The water in the tub had changed to a thin, watery red. She let out a breath and slipped off the bathrobe. She tried not to notice the smell of iron as she knelt beside the tub. Drops of water splashed on Claire's face as she started working soap into the fabric, but Claire kept running the soap down the pleats.

She didn't know how long it'd been. She knew she had seen clocks, but their faces slid out of her mind. It was too full of blood soaking the floor and Mr. Solano's determined, scared expression.

Claire pressed her wrists to her forehead. Her stomach seized when she noticed the copper smell mixing with the pleasant cleanness of soap. She huffed out a breath. She needed to focus. She needed to clean her clothes. She needed to pull herself together, then she could climb in bed.

She had needed to help Mr. Solano, but she'd failed. She had been _feet away_ when he had had his throat slit open by strange men. And Claire had just sat over him, _useless_ as she tried to push the blood back into his body, to finally make good on her hopes of fixing people, to turn her helper's hands into healing ones.

Claire didn't even realize she was crying until she rocked back on her heels, her soapy, bloody, shaky hands pressed to her mouth. Every tear and gasp she had stuffed back ripped itself from her lungs, like her body was tired of holding all of it in. Maybe, if she made enough noise and tears, she could wash away the pain.

The tiles bruised her knees and stung her skin from the cold, and her front was wet from both tears and washing water. It didn't matter. Claire hunched over the side of the tub, her knuckles digging into her face as she shook with sobs.

Everything was so wrong _._ Couldn't things have gone right _for once?_ Couldn't one, kind, gentle man have been spared from this unknown wrath?

The bathroom door opened, but Claire couldn't dredge up the will to turn around. He was still for a moment, then stepped closer. The touch of his hands on her back actually made her flinch. She hated that he was there, hated that he saw her falling apart. He didn't say anything, even as he bent his legs at awkward angles to fit between the toilet and the wall. He reached out to her, gently touching her shoulders and guiding her toward him.

Claire folded into his chest, glad his shirt absorbed her relentless tears. He pressed his hand against her back, his palm half on her bare skin, half on the silky fabric of her camisole. The heat of it anchored her, the one thing that felt real amidst the insanity of the moment.

He didn't seem to care that she was half dressed, that her hands and front had the watered down traces of blood, or even that she was clinging to him like her world might break. Matt held her, arms wrapping around her shoulders tight enough to keep all her pieces from flying apart.

It didn't matter that he hadn't kissed her, it didn't matter that she had been so hurt and angry at him just an hour before. He and his Atlas' shoulders were keeping up her sky one moment at a time.

* * *

 _AN whoops look at the cohabitating that just walked in._


	7. walking blind

_AN Matt and Claire have so many feelings. Protect them._

* * *

Matt turned the heat down on the stove as the eggs finished cooking. Nothing felt real. He was moving through the motions of getting ready for work, but his thoughts were stuck on the night before.

Seeing Claire fall apart had gutted him. Matt had watched countless men break down, the chaos and stress of the war wearing them into nonexistence. But last night had been different. Holding Claire on the bathroom floor as she sobbed into his shoulder had cracked open something inside of Matt that he couldn't quite explain. It wasn't the dull hurt of ignoring a soldier's tears, it wasn't the continual ache of pretending the war hadn't damaged something inside of him, and it wasn't the hopeless misery of sitting in the trench and never knowing if he would see again. It was closer, it was smaller, it was a pain that was almost precious.

He had wanted to kiss her. Not like before, not when his heart had been thumping and he was drawn in by the soft, enticing shape of her lips. It had been a cleaner, more wholesome compulsion this time. He had wanted so badly to press his mouth into her hair, a promise that he would take care of her, that he would do everything he could to make things right. But that wasn't a promise he knew if he could keep. So he had held himself in check and let her tears slide down his neck and past his collar to disappear somewhere around his heart.

He couldn't take care of her, but he could at least keep her safe.

The floorboards creaked in the living room, indicating Claire was awake. He turned to find her in the doorway. She didn't look so defeated as the night before. She was wrapped up tight in his robe, though he couldn't tell if it was to keep warm or to pull her armor a little closer. Her hair wasn't in its usual bob of curls, but it had been tied in a neat over-the-shoulder braid. He swallowed and pushed away the urge to undo the braid and run his hands through her hair.

"Morning," he said. "Sleep well?"

"Uhm, yes. Thank you for your bed. I didn't mean to make you sleep on the couch," she said. He smiled, glad that the tragedy hadn't made her self-conscious. It wouldn't have fit on a woman that strolled into a wolf's den every few days.

"Not at all. I figured you could use some privacy."

"How long have you been up?" she asked, accepting a plate of eggs from him.

"Not long. I'm not sure if I'll go into work today, but I thought it'd be good to be prepared, just in case."

"You're not sure?" Claire frowned at him as she settled into one of the chairs at the table.

Matt buttered a couple pieces of bread and put them in the pan, fighting to sound casual. "If you want me to stay…I wouldn't say no."

Claire considered for a moment, staring at her food. Then she shook her head, dragging in a breath as though preparing herself to speak. "No, no, go ahead to work. I'm fine, I just…need some time."

He watched her for a moment, trying to decide if she really meant it. Then Claire huffed out a laugh, a quick smile flashing across her face. That was good. At least she didn't have to fight to remember how to laugh.

(It had taken Matt months to remember how without it tasting wrong on his tongue.)

"I'm sorry, I just…I don't know, the idea of you going to work seems funny," she said. "You have an office job?"

Matt raised his eyebrows in surprise, hesitating as he flipped her piece of toast. This was the beginning of a conversation he wasn't sure he wanted to have.

"Your clothes," Claire told him. She glanced up at him from her lashes, like she was finally embarrassed. "They're not the sort of stuff a dockworker would wear."

"You thought I worked at the docks?" he asked, a laugh startled out of him. "Do I smell like fish all the time?"

"No, of course not, no. I was only saying…"

"I'm a lawyer," he said. He didn't look at her as he moved her piece of toast from the pan to her plate. He wasn't ready to explain that it wasn't the money but the _fighting_ that he craved, the passable release for the filthy animal he hid behind the polite smiles.

She straightened, eyebrows raising. "That's _really_ the cat's pajamas." Then her brow furrowed in confusion. "But you still go to the boxing hall?"

He grimaced out a smile and pushed himself off the counter. "We all have our reasons to fight."

Claire give him a bemused look, but didn't push. Matt took the opportunity to change the subject. He sat down in the chair opposite her, voice gentle. "Before I go, though, we should…discuss some things."

She heaved a sigh and sat back in the chair. "Alright, sure. Go ahead."

"We don't know what Mr. Solano was involved with, but Claire…it looks like gangsters did this. I don't know of anyone else who would go after him like that."

"That's what I don't get, though," Claire said, shaking her head. "He's a _good man._ Gangsters…they'd never give him the time of day. He's a _dress maker_."

"I know, but they _did_ come for him. Since they didn't look for you, I'm guessing they're not interested in making an example of you both."

"But if they find out I was there…" she agreed glumly. She tore off a piece of toast and ate it, mulling things over as she chewed. "So, what can we do? If it _was_ gangsters, can we go to the police? I didn't see those men's faces. I can't tell them _anything_ beyond those men being white and wearing suits _._ " She worked her jaw, expression souring as she spoke.

"I don't know. We'll figure it out. But right now…I think it's a good idea to lay low, keep out of sight until we know for sure."

"And when will that be?" she asked, meeting his eyes. "When they knock on my door?"

Matt grit his teeth. He couldn't say _'I don't know'_ one more time. "We'll figure it out. There are some people I can talk to, we'll sort it out, I promise."

"Okay. Okay," Claire said, closing her eyes. "Right. I just…things are kind of scary right now."

"I know," he said, wishing he could reach over and touch her face, show that she wasn't completely alone. "But we'll take it bit by bit. I'll pick up some clothes for you when I get back, okay?"

"Get me some clothes?" she asked, straightening.

"Mm-hm. Write down your address and I'll—"

"You're going to my _home?_ "

"Yes. You need clothes and your family deserves to know you're alright."

"What—yes, but you're not going _alone,_ " she said.

"Claire, you shouldn't go back there. If those thugs _do_ know you were there, they might be watching your home. They might hurt you. Your family might be at risk."

"Because they won't be otherwise," she scoffed. A bit of her old iron came back as she put down her toast and glared at him. "I know how these things go, Matt. Everyone does. There is _nothing_ we can do to stop them if they think my family needs to be hurt. My family is in danger no matter what I do."

"But if you—"

"If I go, what might happen? You pack them all here like you did with me?" Claire asked. She waved a hand around at his small kitchen. "Face it, Matt. We can't do anything for them, so it doesn't matter. And if they come after me…" Claire stalled a moment, fear choking her words. "Well, that's what happens. But I'm not hiding from my family. I've been gone all night. They'll be worried sick, even if no one found Mr. Solano yet! So yeah, they deserve to know I'm okay. But they better hear it from my own mouth."

Matt worked his jaw. It would have been _so_ much easier if she was as docile as she had been when she came in. But that was just wishful thinking on his part. Claire had no qualms glaring down two-hundred pound boxers until they behaved. There was no way she was going to cave because it was him, and especially not where her family was concerned.

"If they _find_ you, Claire—"

"I promise you, I'm _much_ less conspicuous in Spanish Harlem than you would be."

Matt clenched his teeth. He couldn't exactly argue with that.

Claire shook her head, seeing the obstinacy in his face. "Look, Matt. Either we both go tonight, or I leave while you're at work. Those are the options."

He huffed out a sigh, searching for an alternative for a few seconds before giving in.

"Fine," he said. "We'll go when I get back. I'll…I'll bring you a change of clothes for the night, if I can."

Claire looked a little doubtful, as though she couldn't imagine where he might find clothes that would fit her (hopefully Karen was willing to make a donation), but didn't question him. Clearly, the idea of her putting on the faintly stained outfit in the bathroom repelled both of them.

"Alright. And thank you," she added. Some of the fight drained out of her, leaving her exhausted once more. "I know this isn't…thank you."

"Of course," he said, wondering if he could have ever made a different choice.

* * *

Matt paused in front of the office door. He had been wondering how he was going to handle seeing Karen and Foggy after last night, but now that he was about to do it, Matt knew he'd handle it like he did every other day. Standing feet from a murder and giving shelter to the witness was no worse than crawling through the trench. Until he knew what he was going to do about everything, he would keep this to himself. They didn't need Claire's plight weighing on their minds.

He dragged in a breath, then opened the door.

"'—say they saw a tall, Caucasian male enter the store after hours'—oh, good morning," Karen said. She looked up from the newspaper she was reading and offered Matt a smile.

"Morning. What do you have there?"

" _The Bulletin._ "

"Apparently they stumbled onto something big," Foggy said. He was sitting on the corner of Karen's desk, toying with one of her paperweights. He turned back to Karen and gestured for her to keep reading.

"Big as in how?" Matt asked. He hung up his hat while he spoke. Just a game of pretend. Simple as always.

"You know how someone's been fighting against bootleggers?" Karen asked.

"Yeah?"

"Well, they struck again. But this time, instead of interrupting a trade off or smashing up a distillery, they attacked a civilian."

"What? Why?"

"Here, listen," Karen said. "'Witnesses say they saw a tall, armed Caucasian male enter the store after hours. Detective Christian Blake from the Fifteenth Precinct told this reporter that it was likely the work of the prohibition supporting vigilantes. "They're acting outside of the law," the detective told us this morning outside of the precinct. "They believe that just because they agree with one law, they're fine to break others to support it. Lately, these criminals have become more violent, and I wouldn't be surprised if they started involving civilians." Detective Blake went on to say…' blah blah, stay safe, trust police officers, be wary of strange individuals." Karen looked up from the paper. "It's not good, whatever the reason."

"The paper's saying the victim was some sort of informant, but I dunno," Foggy said. "To have his throat cut open and left on his shop floor…"

"Wait—his shop floor?" Matt asked, stomach sinking.

"Mm-hm. They killed him and left him there. But it feels kind of weird. Obviously, these vigilantes haven't been nervous about spilling blood before, but a _civilian,"_ Karen said. She shook her head in disgust. Karen had an amazingly thick callus when it came to the barbarity of the world. Matt had to wonder if that was her naturally or some gift of her dubious past. "He didn't do _anything._ He was a tailor."

"That's why I think he's involved with something big. Maybe he was laundering money for them—"

"Don't be all wet," Karen said, rolling her eyes at Foggy. "Some little shop in Spanish Harlem isn't doing _anything_ lucrative enough to serve as a front for a _mobster._ And this doesn't feel like them. Unless this tailor is somehow holding everything together, why leave the actual rum running alo—Matt, are you okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah, of course." He squeezed out a quick smile, trying to smother the horror in his chest. "Just thinking about what happened. It's—it's tragic."

"Yeah," she sighed. "What's _happening_ to the world?"

"I don't know," Foggy said. He shook his head and sighed. "Makes you want to buy an extra lock for your doors, doesn't it? But," he said, clapping his hands, "until swarms of locusts and frogs come from the sky, our legal pursuits still stand. Dugan's trial's coming up, and I want to refine 'drunk misconduct' into something a little more jury-friendly."

He slid off the edge of Karen's desk and loped into his office. Matt watched him go, mind churning over what Karen had told him.

He and Claire hadn't even _mentioned_ the case going public, but now that it had it was all wrong. Teetotalling crusaders _might_ have been responsible, but that didn't explain the other obvious inaccuracies…

"Matt?" Karen asked, giving him a concerned look. "Are you really okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine. Why?"

"You still haven't taken off your coat."

"What? Oh, I—just lost in thought, is all," he said. Matt hurried to pull his coat off, then turned back to her. "Could I see the paper after you're done?"

"Oh, yeah. Here, you can have it now."

"And…could I ask a favor of you? It's nothing big, but it is a little…odd."

"Oh?" Karen raised an eyebrow. "I hope it's an exciting odd."

Matt scoffed out a laugh and shook his head. "Probably not. A friend of mind fell on some bad luck, so she spent the night at my place. Her clothes were ruined and she needs something to wear to go back to her place. Could she possibly borrow a skirt or something? Like I said, it's a little odd."

"Is she alright?" Karen asked, concern instantly changing her features.

"Yeah," Matt said. He was exhausted just thinking about it, which he supposed was good. It was easier to lie when he was too tired to worry about the truth. "She's fine, it was just…a bit of bad luck."

"Oh, okay. Well…if she needs anything—or, you said she was going back to her home today?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Alright. My door is always open, though, if she needs it. And I'll get a dress for her on my lunch break. How tall is she?"

"Uhm…a few inches shorter than you?"

"Okay," Karen said, looking at the ceiling and nodding. "Alright, yeah. I think I have something that could work."

"Thank you, Karen, really."

"Yeah, no problem. If you need anything else, just ask."

Matt gave her a smile, picked up the newspaper, and retreated to his office. He closed the door and sat at his desk.

Nothing made sense. There he was, staring at the morning paper which detailed a murder he had witnessed the night before. And the details were _wrong._ And yet, enough of it was accurate to put Matt's teeth on edge. Solano was found dead on his shop floor after a neighbor noticed the shop was still open after hours. But then it fell apart.

Anyone witness near enough to speculate about the identity of the attackers _must_ have seen that it was two men and not one. Or even if they had assumed Matt was the attacker after hearing the news, it would have been impossible to miss him immediately being pushed back outside by Claire. And, on top of everything else, there _was_ no mention of Claire. Surely any reporter or detective worth their salt would have searched for the missing shop girl.

Why had the article appeared in the morning paper at all? Matt looked over the article, heart speeding up at the thought. It had taken less than a day for the story to appear in the papers, barely a handful of hours, really. That was not enough time to investigate the crime scene, find and interview witnesses, talk to a police detective, and then get it to print.

He itched to call Claire. He needed to tell her what had happened, but he kept himself in check. There was no point in worrying her. She deserved a day of rest, especially after last night. Images of her sobbing into his shirt flashed to mind, making his chest squeeze.

No, he shouldn't call her. And she probably wouldn't pick up the phone, anyway. No, he had to wait, see what else turned up. _The Bulletin_ was the only paper that had the story now, but once the evening edition came out, maybe there would be more to add.

Maybe the reporter had merely found inconsistent witnesses, but something in Matt's gut said this was a cover up. There were too many things that didn't add up in too many crucial ways. Matt didn't know what he and Claire had stumbled into, but it was looking more serious all the time.

Matt struggled to focus on his work, the news article mocking him from where it sat on his desk. He kept turning it over in his mind, alternately trying to puzzle out what it meant for them and trying to decide how to break the news to Claire.

"Hey, Matt," Karen said, knocking on his office door.

He looked up in surprised, mind scrambling for level footing. "Uh—hey. What—what do you need?"

"I have the dress," she said. She held up a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "I hope this works. And I hope she's okay."

"Yeah," Matt said distantly. "She'll be fine."

Karen handed him the dress, then lingered by his desk. He glanced up at her, not sure what to make of her expression.

"Is…everything okay, Karen?" he asked.

"That's what _I_ want to know."

"I don't understand."

"You've been distracted lately. And today, you've barely said three words since you sat down."

"It's that murder, I guess," he said, hoping the complete truth wouldn't show on his face. "It's got me a little rattled."

" _Matt,_ you worked through lunch and didn't bring anything to eat."

"Did I—oh. Right. It's lunch," he said dumbly. Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I meant to buy something, but I've been…"

"Distracted, I know."

"Really, it's fine," Matt lied. Maybe if he said it enough to make Karen believe, he would believe it, too. "I'll just…here. I'll go now."

"Foggy got you something while he was out."

"He did?" Matt asked, perking. "He didn't say anything."

Karen sighed through her nose, as though to say she had too much on her plate to also wrangle Matt into healthy behavior. "Maybe he thought the smell of food might lure you out to talk to him."

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it again. Other than running out the door to grab his food, he couldn't really see a way to escape the lecture Karen had planned.

She must have seen his reluctance to talk, because she softened slightly. "Matt, I don't mean to be a wet blanket, really, I don't. But you don't look well. Did you sleep at all last night? You look like a raccoon."

"Yes, I _did_ sleep."

Karen sighed yet again, a worn smile on her face. "I'm just trying to look out for you guys. Foggy's easy, he just needs good food and he's happy. You, though…"

"It's a little more complicated," he said, smiling in understanding. "Thank you, Karen, really, but you don't have to go through the trouble."

"It's the least I can do after the help you guys gave me. I mean, I was lost before I came here. You guys gave me the foothold I needed. It'd be wrong of me to just look after myself when you both have given me so much."

Matt made his smile a little more sincere. "I know. I just need a few days sleep, is all."

"Yeah, okay," she said. He could tell she didn't quite believe him, but Karen let the subject go.

Matt sat in his office for a few moments after she left, trying to gear himself up for Foggy. He probably had his own lecture in store, but the promise of food was tempting enough to make Matt get up.

To Foggy's credit, he didn't try to drag information out of Matt. He handed over a sandwich with a thin smile, then simply watched him.

"Everything okay?" he asked after a long moment.

Matt was getting very tired of that question. He looked at Foggy, considering what to say. Foggy would know a lie the moment it passed Matt's lips, but he couldn't possibly guess Matt would be lying to cover a murder.

"For the moment," Matt told him, a happy halfway point that kept him with the truth. "I'll keep you updated."

Foggy smiled at him, then nodded. "I'll hold you to it. Now, go eat, you look like you're gonna blow away."

"You sound like your mom, Nelson."

"Hey, I'm just looking out for you. Need your strength up to knock out those palookas later."

Mat snorted and shook his head, then left Foggy's office.

The rest of the day went slow. Matt tried his best not to appear distracted, if only for Foggy and Karen's sake. He wanted to tell them, but there was too much of a risk. If this was bigger than he or Claire thought, which was proving more and more likely, Foggy and Karen could not be caught up in it. And it wasn't really Matt's story to tell. He had merely witnessed what had happened, he didn't have any connection to Mr. Solano. Claire would have to give her permission before they brought anyone new in.

Matt hurried home, Karen's dress in hand and the newspaper in his pocket. A part of him dreaded breaking the news to Claire, but another part wanted to see her as soon as possible.

Matt slowed in the street.

That wasn't right. Claire was there for her own _safety_ , not because they were important to each other. Not like that.

But they _were_ important to each other. Important enough for him to value her safety over his desire to kiss her. Important enough for her to want to be kissed.

He shook his head. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She wasn't there for him.

Matt entered his apartment building, nodding at the people he passed in the halls. He unlocked his front door, then stepped inside. The apartment smelled wonderful, something savory coming from the kitchen.

"Claire, I'm back," he said, forcing himself to keep from relishing every word.

"Oh, Matt. Welcome home," she said, appearing in the door way to the kitchen. She still had the bathrobe on, but her hair appeared to have been washed and re-braided. She held a wooden spoon in her hand, tilted up to keep it from dripping on the floor.

"What're you making?" he asked, taking off his hat and coat.

"Just…just something for dinner. I hope you didn't have any plans for the chicken in the ice box."

"No, no, nothing."

"Good. It's stew," she said, leading him into the kitchen. "I wasn't sure how you liked your food seasoned, but I think it tastes nice."

He smiled as he examined the pot. "I'm sure it'll be great."

"So how was your day?"

"Not bad," Matt told her. He watched her, searching for signs of strain. She still looked tired, a bone deep weariness that sleep couldn't fix. "How was yours?"

"Not bad," she repeated, offering him a thin smile. "I read some, made dinner, cleaned a little…"

"My place that dirty?" he laughed, raising an eyebrow.

"No, no I just…couldn't be still, you know?"

Claire cleared her throat and turned back to the pot. Matt realized how close they were standing and eased back. Distance, distance. He could do this, he just needed distance.

"Anyway, the food's ready now, if you want some. When…when were you thinking about leaving?"

"I think we should eat first, just to be safe. And Karen lent you a dress," he said, proffering the bag still in his hand.

"Karen?"

"My office secretary. She's a bit taller than you, but hopefully…"

"I'll make it work," Claire said. She took the bag from him, but didn't move. She stared at the brown paper, gaze unfocused.

"It'll be alright, Claire," he told her.

"Yeah, of course, I know," she said, starting slightly. "I better get a wiggle on, if we're going to get there before dark."

Claire hurried to the bathroom and shut the door. Matt sighed and went back to the kitchen. He served stew into two bowls, then set them on the small table.

A short list was sitting before one of the chairs, a pencil lying beside it like it was a work in progress.

 _Get clothes_

 _Get sewing kit_

 _Get toiletries_

 _Journal?_

 _Talk to Santino_

 _Tell mama about the clothes to be mended_

Claire's handwriting was neat, the Spanish looping cleanly down the page. Matt smiled slightly and pulled milk from the fridge.

Claire returned form the bathroom wearing Karen's dress. It was a little small, the fabric showing her shape more than was fashionable. Still, it was better than a bloodstained dress.

"Alright, let's eat, then," she said. She smoothed her hands over the pink pleats in her skirt, like she was trying to hide her nerves. She had put on her best face, though. Her hair had been braided yet again, this time to look a little more neat. Her face was free of makeup (he hadn't actually realized she wore makeup until he saw her now), making her eyes looking a little bigger, a little less fierce.

Matt touched her on the shoulder, one small gesture of comfort he felt allowed to make. "Come on. Let's eat then we can see your family."

* * *

 _AN Claire's appearance is a hybrid between her conservative home life and the more liberal fashions of the time. The story is set in 1926, so drop waistlines, bobbed haircuts, and makeup were more trendy than deviant. Still, they carried the connotation of the outspoken, risque flapper girl, so more conservative women either remained with a softened Edwardian style or a very muted version of the flapper look. With Claire, she wears very subtle makeup and pins her hair to mimic a bob. It's enough to be fashionable, but doesn't put the envelope too much with her family._


	8. where the heart is

_AN In light of Luke Cage, I'm going to point out I nailed Claire living in Harlem,_ and _the fact that she's Puerto Rican. As for her father being Afro Cuban...well, the show never explicitly said he wasn't, so I'm going to claim it._

* * *

Claire sat at the table across from Matt. She was uncomfortable wearing another woman's clothes in someone else's home. It was like tragedy had smudged her sense of self away, and now 'Claire' was just a body. Just a hairstyle, just a face, just a pair of hands working and cleaning and trying to forget.

But she was going back to her own life. Soon she would be back through her own front door and the collective memories of her family would give her shape again.

"You have pretty handwriting," Matt said.

Claire jumped, torn from her thoughts. She stared at him in confusion for a moment, then noticed the list she had been struggling to compile over the last hour. "Oh, I don't—it's just a to do list for when I get home."

"I know. I mean, I guessed when I read it."

"You…it's in Spanish," she said dumbly.

"I know," he said with a teasing smile. "I learned in college."

Claire nodded, flashing back to every seemingly secret conversation she'd had with Santino in the boxing hall. She couldn't remember anything more incriminating than insulting some of the rude boxers, but still. She didn't love the idea of Matt hearing her more private thoughts.

Not that there was much left he _didn't_ know. Something about calamity exposed a person.

"I haven't been eavesdropping on your conversations with Santino, if that's what you're wondering," Matt said. He smothered another grin like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Oh, no, I just…didn't know that about you," she lied, then stopped.

It wasn't a lie. She _didn't_ know much about Matt. She knew he bare-knuckle boxed. She knew he lived in Hell's Kitchen. She knew he was lawyer. She knew he had fought in the war. She knew he did—didn't—did—no, he _didn't_ want to kiss her. She now knew he spoke Spanish.

It should have been a stark contrast to his knowledge about her, but it didn't really feel that way. Claire didn't know the intimate details of his life (though she had a feeling that would change, now that she was in his home), but what she _did_ know was overwhelming.

Matt smiled at his food. They were both quiet for a few moments. Claire ate her stew, trying to stifle the panicked screaming in her head. That had been going on for most of the day, the senseless anxiety over the night before making it hard to think. Honestly, she would have been happy to lay down and never get up.

"Claire, we should probably leave soon."

She looked up. Matt had finished and was watching her with a sad, tired expression.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, let's go."

They cleared their bowls. Claire kept her eyes down, too tired to meet his gaze. The two of them moved to the front door and Matt helped her into her coat.

Claire settled into it, watching him put on his hat. He reflected some of her exhaustion back at her, a weight to his eyes that said he needed to sleep for the next ten years. Or maybe Claire was finally mirroring _his_ exhaustion, understanding just a bit of his weariness.

For a moment they just watched each other, then Matt cleared his throat. "Ready?" he asked.

"Aren't you worried about people seeing me?"

He smiled at her. "I think there are bigger things to worry about."

She blinked, heat spreading up from her stomach. She gave him an uncertain smile and nodded. Claire braced herself, then stepped into the hall.

They walked through the building, breath held in case there was trouble. Claire kept her eyes forward, not ready to see open stares of the people around her. Thankfully, she and Matt reached the road without incident. Claire sighed in relief, wondering how on earth she was supposed to make the walk back in.

Matt and Claire were silent as they made their way down the sidewalk. The sky was dyed pink, edging its way to night. People milled through the streets, not paying them any mind.

Claire wanted to take Matt's hand. She wanted the security he'd given her the night before, but she would not do it. She was alright. The only reason she had given in last night was because she was scared out of her mind and needed someone, _anyone_ to anchor her to reality. Now, though, she was strong enough to walk on her own.

After they had walked a block, Matt cleared his throat. "Claire?"'

"Mm?"

"There…was something in the paper today. About what happened."

"What did it say?" she whispered, words barely squeaking through her throat.

"It didn't mention you."

"Okay," she said. The word came out in a huff. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath.

"But…there were some things that didn't add up."

"How?"

He pulled a folded newspaper from his inside coat pocket. Matt handed it to her, pointing out the article.

"I don't understand," she said once she had skimmed the piece. "Did the reporter just—this is wrong. There's no _way_ those prohibition vigilantes were the ones that did this."

"I know," he said.

"No, but—this is _wrong_ ," she repeated. Claire looked from the paper to him. "This—this detective, he can't—what's he even saying, 'there is a strong likelihood of justice being served'? This sap, _Detective Blake,_ he's got it all wrong." She shook the paper like she might rattle answers from it.

"That was this morning's paper," Matt said, sounding glum.

"So have they updated the story, brought anything new in the afternoon or evening editions?"

"Claire," Matt said, and it was so gentle that she had to stop. "I think whoever ordered Solano to be killed has contacts at the paper. This one, anyway. There's no way they could pull together a story that fast."

She blinked, then looked at the article again. "So…you're saying this is a cover up?"

"I'm saying this is bigger than we thought."

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to be involved with this. She didn't want _anything_ to do with this—murders and cover-ups and gangster sticking their fingers into it all.

Claire inhaled, hating how the air stuck in her throat. She wasn't going to cry, not any more. She had done that enough.

She looked at Matt, searching his face. She didn't want answers, exactly, but she certainly needed strength.

Claire took his hand. This time, it wasn't about being able to walk on her own. She didn't _want_ to walk on her own, not against this. She squeezed his hand tight, afraid that she might start to think if she didn't cling to him.

"It's gonna be okay," she said. Her voice shook, but she made herself say it again. "It's…it's gonna be okay."

"Of course it is," he said, squeezing her hand back.

They walked to Claire's home, neither one letting their hand drop. Claire was thankful for the long walk, as it gave her time to compose herself. By the time they entered Spanish Harlem, the tension in Claire's stomach had dissipated. The sounds of home mixed in with the New York rumble; the sound of a trumpet a block over, a few older women bickering at break-neck speeds, people gathering to set up a domino tournament.

This was home. This was where Claire Temple lived. She was going to be okay.

About a block away from her apartment, Matt asked, "Are you nervous?"

"About what? Seeing my family?"

"Along with everything else."

"Are _you_ nervous?" Claire asked, noting the lines in his forehead.

Matt unfurrowed his eyebrows almost reflexively. "Just unsure."

Claire stared at him, trying to puzzle out an answer to her vague statement. She was glad Matt was there with her, but dammit, he was not the most forthcoming person she had ever met.

Claire almost stopped walking when they entered her tenement building. She felt self-conscious all of a sudden, unsure what to do with these two aspects of her life mixing. She knew Matt wouldn't judge her for her humble home life, but her family might not be so understanding when she waked in with one of her illegal boxers in tow.

She looked at him again, earning a " _What?"_

Claire sighed. "I just realized I have no idea how I'm going to explain this."

Matt was about to answer when someone gasped " _Claire?!"_ from down the hall, and then she was being tackled by Santino. He spoke in rapid fire Spanish, completely ignoring Matt's presence.

 _"Claire,_ you're alright! I was so worried, your family's been scared out of their minds! Mom's been asking around all day, even though she should be in bed. Oh, thank God you're okay!"

She laughed, heart squeezed into her throat by the fierceness of his hug.

"Santino, please, I'm fine."

"You just went _missing_ , what—"

"I'm okay, Matt's been looking after me."

"Matt?" Santino leaned back and looked at him. He blinked a few times like he couldn't register what he was seeing. "What—what are you—"

"It's a long story," Claire sighed. "Just…let me see my family first, okay?"

"Oh! Yeah! I just—I'm glad you're safe," Santino said. He gave Matt an uncertain nod, squeezed her shoulder, then slipped out of the hall.

Claire let out another long breath. "Okay," she told Matt, "let's go meet my family."

Claire led Matt up the stairs to her family's apartment. Then she hesitated, unsure if she was supposed to knock or go right in. Deciding to err on the side of caution, she knocked. Matt shifted behind her, and she found herself wishing she had reclaimed his hand after Santino left.

The door opened, revealing Maribel. She stared at Claire for a moment, eyes wide and disbelieving. Then she gave a wordless shrill and grabbed Claire into a hug. Maribel crushed the air from Claire's lungs, but also managed to press a bit of her soul back in. Just as Claire had predicted, being home reminded her of who she actually was.

(Though, there was still the new part of her that missed the warmth of Matt's hand.)

" _Maribel—_ Maribel what is it?" Reynaldo demanded, appearing from the kitchen. The others in the family trickled forward, their voices less distinctive as Maribel laughed and cried in Claire's ear. Claire glanced back at Matt and wondered just how much of the Spanish he understood.

"You're back, you're _back,_ I thought you were hurt, we were all so scared, but you're _back,"_ her sister kept murmuring into her ear, heartfelt and wonderful. Claire laughed, her own tears forming as hands patted her back and voices filled her ears and love swelled her heart.

Her mother managed to pull her from Maribel, squaring off as she held Claire by the shoulders.

"Oh, honey, we were so _worried_ , _"_ she whispered.

"I know, I'm sorry, I never meant to make you worry," Claire said, smiling in apology as she dabbed at her eyes.

Soledad shook her head. A strangely amused laugh escaped her lips, surprising Claire. "We're just happy you're okay. After what happened to Mr. Solano, we didn't even know if you were alive."

The excited warmth froze in Claire's chest. She blinked, new, horrified tears coming to her eyes.

They had thought she might be dead. No wonder everyone was so relieved to see her. It was obvious, really, _so_ obvious, why had she forgotten?

"I'm so _sorry,_ Mama," Claire whispered. She sucked in a breath and stepped back. Claire gestured for Matt to come in, drawing attention to the man standing quietly in the doorway.

"Everyone, this is my friend, Matthew Murdock," she said.

Everyone's eyes shifted to Matt, who stepped forward with flawless manners.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, his Spanish slightly accented but clear. He offered Soledad a hand. She took it, eyes demanding answers from Claire.

"Let's…let's close the door. I need to explain some things."

"Wait, I'll go get Alfie," Emilio said, slipping out the door. Claire watched him go, surprised that she hadn't noticed Alfonso was missing.

They all settled in the living room, everyone crowded onto or around the sofa. Claire sat in the armchair, while Matt stood quietly on the edge of the room.

Claire explained what happened as best as she could. The words felt too sparse to explain properly, to detail the brutality of Mr. Solano's murderers, the smell of murder, the horrifying slink of blood on her skirt. So she didn't even try. She explained in simple detail about the two men, about Matt helping her, about what they thought might happen now. She didn't start when Emilio returned with Alfonso, she didn't get derailed when the people next door began yelling. She didn't even glance at Matt for support. She could _do_ this.

When she finished, Reynaldo swore softly. Maribel and Soledad were so stunned by Claire's story that they didn't even reprimand him.

"And you think this is all mobsters," he said. He ran a hand over his hair, searching for something to say. "You're…you're sure?"

"As sure as I can be," Claire said. She forced out a tiny smile, like that might help.

"But…how? I mean, Mr. Solano…he'd never do that. He was the sweetest person on the whole street," Maribel murmured.

"Have you seen today's paper?" Claire asked.

"Yes? They mentioned what happened to Mr. Solano, but _nothing_ of gangsters," her smother said.

"Not the Spanish ones. The English ones all picked up the story by the evening," Matt said. Again, all eyes slid to him as he fished the paper back out of his pocket. He handed it to Carmen, who scanned the page as she listened.

"The details are _very_ good. But they never mention me or the two men," Claire continued.

"They probably didn't know you were there. Once the reporters find out, though—"

"That's the thing. They have witnesses describing what happened, but _anyone_ could have said I worked there. Or seen the two men that—that killed Mr. Solano. Instead, they say it's one and that it's one of those prohibitionist vigilantes."

"It's not _completely_ strange to have white people in the store, though, right?" Reynaldo asked. "You have one or two of the wealthy people who send runners, didn't you say?"

"That's true, yeah, but this isn't something you just make a _mistake_ about," Claire insisted. "If those papers had _actually_ interviewed _anyone_ on the street, they would have been told that."

"And this copy came out this morning," Matt added. "Unless a reporter for _The Bulletin_ happened to be walking down the street moments after it happened, there is no way they could talk to several witnesses, a police detective, _and_ write it up in time for the morning edition. This has to be planned."

Soledad sagged back into the sofa, moaning slightly. "God have mercy on us," she whispered.

Claire looked down at her knees. It was kind of funny, somehow. After all her family's worry about bare-knuckle boxing being the death of her, trouble had come from her respectable place of work.

"We thought…it's probably best if I stay somewhere else until we know exactly what's going to happen," Claire continued.

"Where?" Alejandra asked, eyes widening in fear. "Auntie Claire…how long are you going to be gone?"

"I—I don't know," she said, throat stopping up. The kids had been mostly silent throughout her explanation, but now Alejandra's question sent murmurs through the whole family. "I'll be staying with a friend in Hell's Kitchen. If anyone _does_ come after me…I want it as far away from you as possible."

Claire made a point of not looking at Matt as she spoke. There was no need to lend credence to the slight looks her family was sending him. Some things deserved to stay private. And the thought of her staying in the home of a strange man would be enough to make them lock her up, gangsters be damned.

"How is _that_ safe?" Reynaldo asked. "If they find you…"

"I'll protect Claire," Matt promised. The hard certainty in his voice managed to draw her eyes. He met Reynaldo's gaze, stepping forward slightly like he wanted to show Reynaldo just how earnest he was.

"You said he was a boxer, yes?" Reynaldo asked. He aimed the question at Claire, but swung back to Matt. "But you can't be with her all the time. And what if they come after her with _guns?_ You can't stop those with fists."

"And if I stayed here?" Claire asked, staring him down. "How would _you_ stop them?"

"I'm just saying—I'm saying it's not a very good situation," Reynaldo sighed. "It's nothing toward you, Mr. Murdock."

"If it helps, I'm also a lawyer," Matt said. "If it's at all possible, I'll do my best to protect Claire physically and legally."

And what about emotionally? Why was that still off the table?

Matt studied her family, waiting for an answer. Soledad had her arms folded tight against her chest. Reynaldo turned to Maribel, the two of them staring hard at each other. The kids all gazed at the floor.

Claire felt very alone as she sat in a room where her family refused to look at her and the man she thought she could really love refused to touch her.

"Is there _something_ we can do?" Maribel finally asked. Her eyes flicked between Matt and Claire, expression desperate.

"Wait. Keep an eye out. Pray." Claire tried to smile as she spoke, but she didn't think it really worked.

Soledad huffed out a sigh, then sat up. "How long do you think it will be?"

"Hopefully no more than a couple of weeks."

"Then come on, I'll help you pack."

Soledad waved her hands at her daughter, urging Claire to her feet. Claire stood up, glancing at Matt. He smiled in reassurance, as though promising to stay. Maribel and Carmen ghosted after Claire, somber as though they were going on vigil.

Reynaldo directed the kids to the kitchen, trying to reassert order to their lives. Claire heard him continue speaking to Matt, their voices low rumbles in the living room.

Claire stood by her bed, watching dumbly as her family pulled out a carpet bag and began filling it. There was a reverence with which they touched her clothes, neatly folding them up and setting them inside the bag.

"Oh, my sewing kit," Claire said, stepping forward as Carmen closed it.

"And the toiletries, dear," Maribel told her. Carmen nodded and slipped from the room.

Claire faced her mother and sister, hating that she had no explanation to give.

"Who gave you that dress?" Maribel asked.

"A-a friend of Matt's. It doesn't quite fit, I know, but—"

"It's fine, honey," Soledad said. She pulled Claire's hands away from plucking at the fabric. "Though you might want to change while you're here."

"Okay. Okay. Uhm, Mama, don't forget that some of Alfonso's clothes still need to be mended. And did I get another pair of stockings put in? It only looked like two. Oh, and Maribel, I'm sorry, but you—"

"Claire."

She closed her eyes at her mother's steady voice. Of course, she was right. It was fine.

She sucked in a breath, then pulled one of the dresses out of her bag. She slipped out of the borrowed dress, then let her mother ease the collar of the new dress over her head.

"Are you sure you'll be okay? Maribel asked.

"I—I don't know," Claire said, voice catching. "I don't know at all."

"Matthew said he would protect you, are you comfortable with that?"

"Yes," Claire said. She stopped, one arm halfway through the sleeve as she looked at her mother in confusion. He was _hardly_ the thing to be worried about right now. If she had to pick anyone to trust her life with, it would be Matt. Matt, with his exhausted smiles and steady hands and heartfelt determination. "He is a good man, trust me. Trust _him._ He's gonna keep me safe, he's—he's—"

Claire's words broke off as she dragged in a shaky breath. She clenched her teeth as she smoothed the dress down over her hips. She would not cry, she would not, she would _not._

"It's okay, it's okay, hon," Soledad said, waving Claire into a hug. Claire held on tight to her mother. She squeezed her eyes shut, memorizing Soledad's soap and lavender oil smell. When would she smell it again?

Then Maribel was hugging them both, and Claire felt like maybe things would be alright. When she opened her eyes, she might be able to go to work, or go help the men in the boxing hall, or not be so _afraid._

Claire opened her eyes. Tears dotted the fabric of her mother's shoulder . Claire let out a slow breath.

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you both."

"It's alright, it'll be alright. We'll find a way through, we always have," Soledad told her.

The two women pulled away from Claire and finished packing. Claire tried to help, but her brain stalled out after picking up her sewing kit. She had had a list this morning. She had been so determined. Claire had been so _certain_ that seeing her family would solve her answers, but now that she had she felt every bit as lost as before.

They walked back into the living room. Matt and Reynaldo sat quietly. The whole apartment was quiet, really, the ghastly hush of tragedy silencing a dozen people. Claire's mouth twisted. She didn't want silence any more. Not if it cost a man his life.

Matt got to his feet as Claire entered the room, his eyes fixed on her face.

"Are you ready?"

"Uh…yes."

 _No, no, no no no I don't want to leave, I don't want to go back out there, don't make me, please please please._

 _"_ I'd offer to let you stay and eat, but...it's probably best if you go," Reynaldo said. Claire gave him a thin smile.

"Here," Maribel said, pushing something into Claire's hand. She looked down and found a small picture frame. It was the only full family photograph they had, taken a few years back. Everyone's faces looked sad instead of solemn, like they were attending a funeral. She didn't know why. They hadn't been anywhere near so sad at her Papa's funeral.

"I can't take this—" Claire began, but Soledad shook her head.

"Take it, honey. Just for a bit of comfort while you're away."

Claire closed her eyes, refusing to let more tears fall. She grabbed her mother into another hug, this one a fast squeeze before she broken down entirely.

Then everyone was there, queuing up to hug her goodbye. Claire gave up fighting her tears as she hugged her sister, the children, then her brother-in-law. They whispered goodbye, that they loved her, that they all would see her again soon. She noticed that they hugged Matt, too, enveloping him in their teary thankfulness for taking care of Claire.

Claire pulled away from Alejandra to hug the next person, then caught herself when she saw it was Matt. They both hesitated, torn between the rhythm of the moment and everything that had come before. Claire nodded at him and stepped past, trying not to notice that Matt's arms had been opened ever so slightly to welcome her in.

Claire paused by the door, both her bag and the picture frame in hand.

"I love you," she told her family. Her stomach was tight from nerves, terrified and nauseous at the thought of leaving her family for the forseeable future. Carmen nodded and said she loved her back, while Claire's mother just nodded. The rest of the kids were crying.

"Take care of her," Reynaldo told Matt.

"Of course," Matt said, voice a solemn whisper. He stepped to the door, hesitating before Claire once again. He seemed different somehow. Not the boxer, brutal and quiet in turn, not the lawyer that was polite and caring one moment to the next. When Matt looked in her eyes, Claire saw something determined and steady fixed on keeping her safe.

"Are you ready?" he asked again, and Claire nodded. This time, when she said yes, her voice didn't shake.

* * *

 _AN Guys, I just really love Claire's family. I love them a whole lot. Her having a support system is very, very important to me._


	9. in the quiet hours of the night

_AN There is so much history in this chapter and I love all of it and I can die happy._

* * *

Matt sat on his couch, elbows braced on his knees. Claire sat in the other chair, expression distant. They had been quiet on the walk back from Claire's home, too tired to speak. They'd barely had the energy to stumble into the living room before collapsing into a chair. Matt had managed to shrug out of his suit jacket and take off his tie, and Claire had taken off her shoes. They sat neatly beside her chair as she stared out the dark window.

Claire had changed while at her family's apartment, slipping into a dark blue and cream number with a rounded collar. This dress fit her perfectly, suggesting no hints of trauma like Karen's dress did. Matt almost could have believed she was simply relaxing after a long day at work.

The last time Claire had worn that dress, Matt realized, she had been tending to Matt's bloody nose. It was kind of funny, how every one of their memories was forged over blood.

Kind of funny, but mostly sad.

Claire took a deep breath like she was waking up from a dream. "Thank you for taking me home."

"Not at all," he said.

"No, really." Claire gave him a shy smile and pressed on. "You could have just gone without me. I…I appreciate it."

Matt shook his head, brushing away her thanks. "It's nothing, Claire. I'm just here to help."

Claire laughed and leaned back in her chair. When she spoke, she had returned to gazing out the window. "The boxing hall feels like a long time ago, doesn't it?"

Matt nodded. His worry over explaining why he hadn't kissed her seemed silly, now. Silly, and yet so much more preferable to all of this. Even if it meant probably never seeing her again (or at least, certainly never being as close with her again), he would have preferred the normal fallout of his actions. Having Claire in any capacity wasn't worth all of this suffering.

"I'm actually surprised you told the kids what happened," Matt said.

She looked at him in surprise, head tilted slightly. "Really? We tell each other everything."

"Don't you think that's a little big, though? Won't it bother the kids, knowing how dangerous this all is?"

Claire chuckled and shook her head. " _You_ try keeping a secret in a home that small."

Matt flinched out a smile. To be fair, he and his father had done much the same thing. Things had been hard, especially after his father had fallen ill. Secrets ceased to exist once the great Battlin' Jack Murdock admitted he had the consumption, and soon Matt would have to make his own way.

Which was strange, considering how many truths Matt held from the people in his own life.

Claire pulled her feet onto the chair and nestled her face into the cushions. She frowned at the line of laundry beyond the window, waving in the wind. "Mama tells us everything, she always has. Maybe not in the moment, but she always tells us that eventually we will hear the truth."

She gave him a thin smile like she had just remembered he was there and was trying to orient herself.

"Sometimes I think the only secret in our family was how bad the war was for my dad."

Matt swallowed hard. That was a little too on the nose.

"Your dad?" he asked, struggling to remember if Claire had mentioned him before. No one had commented on his absence earlier.

"He died in the war," she said, the words simple like they no longer hurt. Matt envied that sort of acceptance.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" she asked, continuing on like it was nothing.

"I don't know," Matt sighed. He chewed on the words he knew he was supposed to say, hating what they opened the door to. "We…I think we need help."

"From who?" Claire asked. She frowned, expression confused like she had tried sorting through their options and found none.

"My friends—my business partner and secretary—might be able to help." Matt fought back a grimace as he spoke. He had wanted to keep his friends isolated from this chaos, but it had become painfully obvious that he and Claire could not do this alone.

He had hated sitting in Claire's apartment as his own ineptitude became increasingly apparent. Reynaldo had spoken to Matt while Claire packed her things, asking again and again what Matt planned to do. Matt had answered to the best of his ability, trying not to draw attention to just how lost they all were.

"A lawyer and a secretary?" Claire raised an eyebrow, some of her old spunk reappearing.

"Hey, you can never have too many lawyers. And Karen is _far_ more than a secretary. She has some experience with…dubious situations."

Claire chuckled and shook her head. "You've got quite the office. A bare-knuckle boxer, a devious secretary, and what? Is your partner a communist?"

"No, no, Foggy's stayed off the Marxist train."

"Good. I am too tired to hear of the wicked bourgeoisie's ways."

Matt smiled at her as she closed her eyes. She looked like she might go to sleep right there.

"I was thinking I would tell them tomorrow," he continued.

"Okay."

"They'll want to meet you right away."

"Why?" Claire cracked open an eye in interest.

"To make sure you're alright, mostly. Karen might drag you home to tend after you herself."

"Okay," she repeated, her mouth quirking at the thought.

"Where do you want to meet them? Here or in the office?"

She let out a long, slow breath. "Won't your neighbors get suspicious if I keep going in and out?"

"Judgmental, but not suspicious."

"I'm ruining your reputation one outing at a time."

Claire's words were mild, but they put a lump in Matt's throat. Thankfully, it didn't show in his voice.

"That's alright. I can always move somewhere new if the gossip gets too terrible."

Claire grinned, sighed, then stood up. "Either way, I'd like to meet them here. In your office feels…a lot more real than I'm ready for. Will they come home with you?"

"Probably not," he said, thinking. "It might be easier to have them come on Saturday. That way we have a little time to prepare."

Claire nodded, then looked down. "Alright, then." She held her hands like she was bracing herself. "And—thank you, Matt. You didn't have to do this."

"I already said, it's nothing."

She watched him for a long moment, then nodded again. "Alright, well—good night, then."

"Good night, Claire," he said. She gave him one last nod, then disappeared into the bedroom.

Matt closed his eyes. He wasn't ready to get up and make his bed on the couch like this was normal. Everything was…not _wrong_ , exactly, but certainly not right.

Going to see Claire's family had been drastically different than he expected. He had thought he and Claire would be even—home for home, each allowed to see some inner part of the other, but that had _not_ been the case. Something of Claire's life had been exposed, something intimate and honest that he felt certain he should not have seen. Not like in the bathroom, that Matt had earned by living through the last few horrendous hours with her. Her home, though, that was something special he had no right to.

And, it also reaffirmed the fact that he _had_ to help her through this. Her life and everything in it was too precious for him to let fall apart. And yet, all his efforts were little more than flicking gauze at a gaping wound he couldn't even see.

How were they supposed to stop _gangsters_? They could try going to the police, but just as many were on the take as off. If and when these thugs found out about Claire's existence, they would be _sure_ to lean on their connections to find her and squash any story she tried to tell.

There were always the prohibition agents, though they didn't inspire him with much confidence. The Prohibition Unit _clearly_ wasn't doing shit if he had a woman hiding in his bedroom from rumrunning gangsters. But they didn't exactly have options. The chances of finding an uncorrupted probie as opposed to an uncorrupted policeman was better, but he still didn't like it. And how were they supposed to contact them? Walk into their office and tell a vague story about how a murder didn't match the flawlessly accurate papers and was likely the work of the mob? They would probably get laughed off the block.

He had wanted so _badly_ to promise both Claire and her family that he could handle this, that he would keep her safe completely, utterly, without question. She would be fine in his hands, better than otherwise. Instead he'd had to settle for approximations— _if it's at all possible, I'll do my best._

Maybe he'd wanted to deal in absolutes because, in some twisted way, it was as close as he would get to asking permission to court her.

Matt pushed himself off the couch, running his hands through his hair. This was a mess, this was all an enormous mess. His hands twitched, suddenly longing for a cigarette. He worked his jaw. He had given up smoking while in college. Too many reminders of France.

He grabbed the blankets from the arm of the couch and made his bed. He focused on the action instead of thinking about Claire in the next room, a girl that didn't belong for so many reasons but one he desperately wished did.

No. He had given up that chance, Claire had more or less told him so in the alley behind the tailor shop. The glassy hurt in her eyes was just a taste of what she would likely have to face if they became involved. She was too smart to go back to a man that would only cause her trouble. And he was too smart to give into a base craving.

But love _wasn't_ base. That was the other thing.

But he wasn't sure if he loved her. He couldn't be. It would honestly hurt too much if he was.

(Not that he didn't ache over it already.)

Matt stood still for a long moment, holding his breath like he could purge the chaos inside of him if he just waited. He huffed it out, nothing changing except his heart beating a little faster. He put his hands over his eyes. _That_ was a darkness he didn't mind; he could control it, at the very least.

When he pulled them away, he was confronted by his makeshift bed and the potential of more nightmares. Things had been good the last few days, the ghoulish mix of memory and imagining staying far away while he slept. That would change, though, it always did. It would change and then Claire would be accosted with at least part of the thing he had worked so hard to hide.

Matt shook his head, locked the front door, and walked back to the chair Claire had just vacated. He sat in it, glaring at the made up couch like it was an opponent he had to defeat.

* * *

Wesley listened to the report over the phone, nodding slightly as the man spoke. Everything thing had gone off smoothly. The tailor was dead and the newspaper article had been published that morning. The reporter had even followed up at the police station, allowing Detective Blake to nudge New York in the direction of that irritating, teetotaling gunslinger. Everything about this nightmare had been wrapped up very neatly indeed.

"And what about the assistant?" he asked. "Her name didn't appear in the paper, so I'm assuming you didn't leave her body there?"

The sense of satisfaction in his chest withered at the silence from the speaker. He forced a smile onto his face and pushed up his glasses.

"McNamara. You _did_ take care of the assistant, right?"

"Uh…there wasn't an assistant there."

Wesley sat up straight. "Of course there was, she's _always_ there." He could just picture her fierce brown eyes that belied her polite conversation.

"Look, we came in and the tailor was the only one in the shop."

"Did you check for her?" Wesley asked, ice practically dripping off his tongue. "You were _told_ she was there."

"But we didn't see—"

"Did you look for her _after_?" Wesley demanded.

McNamara stuttered for a few seconds, then Wesley cut over him. " _Find_ her. I need to know if she knows _anything._ If Solano tried talking to the police, maybe he told her something."

"Y-yes, Mr. Wesley. Of course."

"Have someone watch the store, her house, his, _anything._ It'll be your body next to the tailor's if you let her get away."

"Of course, Mr. Wesley. We're on it."

Wesley dropped the phone onto its arm. Of course. He had been foolish to think it would be half so easy to stem this catastrophe.

Solano had tried talking to a fed, and now his shop girl was in the wind. A whole _day_ had passed for her to get _who_ knew where. Maybe she was innocent, but maybe Fabían Solano had told her the ins and outs of the whole operation. It had been foolish to let the tailor be in the room when Mr. Fisk discussed business. Wesley was supposed to guard against _any_ danger to the empire Fisk was trying to make. But they both thought the pain of death would have dissuaded the man.

Obviously, the tailor had more mettle than they'd expected. The shop girl, Claire, would undoubtedly be bolder. Even if she _hadn't_ been in the store when Solano was killed, even if she knew nothing, she was definitely sharp enough to notice the inconsistencies of their cover story. She needed to be tied up.

Wesley stood from his desk, insides twisting. He walked to the door joining his office with Mr. Fisk's, adjusted his navy suit, then knocked.

"Come in," Fisk said, voice barely audible through the door.

"McNamara just checked in," Wesley said as he walked into the room. It was luxurious, full of dark, polished wood and expensive imports. Wesley knew it didn't suit Fisk's tastes, but it was the style for rich men in power, so personal preferences had been put aside for the sake of image.

Fisk didn't look up from his papers, but he angled his face toward Wesley.

Wilson Fisk was a large man, and everything about him had been tailored to perfection. His soft way of speaking, his exquisite suits, his very public donations to charity—all were carefully crafted to hide the more sinister organization beneath. Steel was all well and good for the average millionaire, but the real money was dripping wet. Alcohol was the lifeblood of the country (anyone who said to the contrary clearly hadn't walked the halls of the White House), and Fisk planned to make full use of it.

"Yes…I saw the news article in the paper. Detective Blake's quote was especially evocative."

Wesley worked his jaw. "There's been a complication."

Fisk was still a moment, then looked up at Wesley.

"The shop assistant hasn't been accounted for."

"Miss Claire Temple," Fisk mused. His expression crumpled slightly, but his voice remained mild.

He pushed back from his desk, then walked to one of the floor to ceiling windows. The street below crawled with lights, little glowing dots that tried to beat back the darkness surrounding New York.

"What was your take on her?" Fisk asked the window.

"She was spirited. She was accommodating and polite, of course, but that was the image she put on for work."

"Do you think she knows anything?"

"It's entirely possible. I'd imagine he would try to keep her isolated, but I could be wrong. I didn't take Solano as someone brave enough to contact the feds."

"If she does…she would continue to pull the thread Mr. Solano unraveled."

"With vigor."

Fisk turned around. He may have been large, but he rarely looked it. Now, toying with his cufflinks, he appeared more like a nervous child than a substantial tycoon.

"It was arrogant of me to discuss any of my business dealings with him in the room. I supposed this is the cost of such a mistake."

"We'll find her," Wesley promised. Fisk nodded, his smile more a grimace than anything.

"Of that I have no doubt. But we must practice caution," he said, turning to his desk. "The Russians are already giving us trouble. If the Ranskahov brothers find out about this, they'll cause trouble for sure."

Wesley pursed his lips. Anatoly and Vladimir Ranskahov couldn't even hope to claim the wealth and connections Fisk possessed, but they had an uncanny knack of producing any strange, offbeat item needed. Wesley suspected everything came through their tsarist connections, but they never said. Still, it would fit. The dispossessed White Russians had to have _something_ if they actually ever hoped to regain a foothold in their country.

"We need to assess the damage the girl has done, if any. Then dispose of the body," Fisk continued on.

"Of course. And her family?"

"Pay for her funeral service. An act of good will from a philanthropist."

"Understood, Mr. Fisk. This will be dealt with as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Wesley," Fisk said. To someone else, he would have looked concerned. Wesley, however, knew full well that this was Fisk plotting his next move.

* * *

 _AN Although Karl Marx published his thoughts on socialism in the late 19th century, they didn't take off as a movement until the beginnings of the 20th century during the Russian Revolution. Vladimir Lenin popularized a brand of socialism called Marxist-Leninism and led the Red Army against Tsar Nicholas II. Those in the White Movement (opposing socialism and wanting to keep the tsar as their leader) fought to maintain the system, but were officially defeated 1917 when Nicholas was dethroned. They fought in Russia for a few more years before finally going into exile._

 _Western mistrust of socialism was pervasive at the beginning of the 20th century. Some supported the exiled Russian royal family in vague hopes of their reclaiming the country, but their efforts largely manifested in persecuting socialists. The US experienced the First Red Scare in 1919-1920, featuring both social and political persecution of both suspected and convicted socialists._


	10. the in between places

_AN Oh, it's been a while. Enjoy a new chapter filled with maximum mutual pining, and the foundations of **even more plot.** Things about to get very exciting, guys. Trust me on this one._

* * *

Claire listened to the people upstairs get ready for the day. She was still tired, one exhaustion bleeding into another until she didn't think she could move.

She heard Matt moving around the kitchen. He had come in earlier to grab his clothes, virtually silent in his quest to not disturb her. Each step had been like he was walking on feathers, carefully placing his feet to keep from disrupting a single one.

Claire had known Matt was a gentlemen from the first, but still his consideration surprised her. Everything he did was for her benefit, no questions asked.

And yet, a tiny, bitter part of her wondered how he could be so kind after treading on her heart. Or maybe that was _why_ he was so decent now. Guilt might be his motivator for making everything about her.

Claire's stomach squirmed with shame over the thought. Matt had made the point of apologizing to her, going so far as to track her down at _work_ to explain what had happened when he almost kissed her. That amount of effort couldn't be caused by a mildly guilty conscience. Claire just had no idea what it might be, otherwise.

The clock on the nightstand said it was almost eight, meaning Matt would leave soon. Claire forced herself out of bed and slipped into Matt's robe. She combed her fingers through her hair, hoping to undo the worst of the tangles before she left the room.

Matt stood at the stove, his back facing her. He cut a strong figure as always, his boxer's shoulders standing out even under his shirt. She watched him work, the muscles in his back shifting with every move.

His shirt didn't quite fit, she realized. It had once, but now his shoulders were too broad, his arms too bulky. That had probably happened when he started boxing. Claire watched the fabric stretch and bunch over his skin, trying to guess when he had decided prizefighting was a viable pastime.

She started slightly, realizing a moment too late that this was probably too intimate for her to see. She looked away, embarrassed.

"Good morning," she said. Matt flashed her a quick smile over his shoulder, then turned back to the stove. He loaded a plate of eggs like the day before, this time without the sausage.

"Morning."

"Aren't you having breakfast?" she asked, nodding at the single plate he had prepared.

Matt shrugged, handing it over. "I already ate."

Claire nodded and leaned against the table. She didn't know what to say to him anymore. Now that her shock was well and truly gone, all Claire could think about was how _inappropriate_ it was for her to be there. Or maybe that was because of the visit to her family. She kept envisioning their reactions when they realized that the friend she was staying with was actually Matt.

"Are you nervous about talking to your friends today?" she asked. She glanced up from her plate in time to catch Matt sigh.

"Not nervous, just…anxious. Telling them means bringing them into this. I want them to be safe for as long as possible. Are you nervous about meeting them?"

"A little. Telling the story to my family made it all feel real. Who knows what will happen when I tell it this time."

"You won't have to," Matt said. "I'll tell them for you, if you want. That way, when we all meet, it's just to find a solution. Or options."

Claire nodded. That sense of exhaustion only grew.

Matt slipped on his suit jacket, still speaking. "Anyway, I should get going. If you need anything, I wrote the office number down," he said, pointing at a pad on the table. "Just try to rest up."

He watched her for a long moment, their faces just inches apart. Claire stared back, struck by how tired Matt looked. How tired he always looked, honestly. He might have been well-dressed and clean shaven now, but the bags under his eyes weren't just the product of a long day at work or a slew of boxing matches. They existed both in his proper home life and in the lawless boxing hall.

"Yeah, I'll try," Claire promised.

 _Only if_ you _do,_ she wanted to add, but maybe that was a little too personal to say. They weren't _close._ He was a man she was friendly with, and she… She was a woman he had helped in crisis, that was now standing in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, about to eat his food. But they weren't close. They were just…very, very confusing.

Matt smiled at her, then left.

Claire ate breakfast. She had this persistent need to climb back in bed, pull the covers over her face and forget everything as Matt's smell surrounded her, but she made herself finish eating. She walked into the bedroom and resisted the call of the still-warm blankets. She pulled a new dress out of her bag and walked to the bathroom. She was not going to fall apart today.

Claire took her time washing off and cleaning her hair, hoping to use up as much time as possible. The less dead space in her day, the better she would be. Claire might have _told_ herself that she had used up her moment of hysteria just after Mr. Solano's murder, but her body didn't quite believe it. If she could just distract herself from the murky, lethargic terror looming over her, she should be fine.

Claire brushed then pinned her hair, slipped into her dress, and pulled on a pair of stockings. She buckled her shoes and walked into the living room. Normalcy, that was what she needed.

Matt's home was already spotless, so Claire couldn't distract herself by cleaning. She rinsed off her dishes from breakfast, though she didn't really feel that counted. Claire glanced around the apartment, dismissing the books, the radio—

Matt's shirt. If one didn't fit, what were the chances the others didn't? It would be slight, but still, if it meant wiling away some time...but that might be invasive. If _noticing_ his shirt didn't fit was too intimate—but this wasn't her _ogling_ him. It was a thoughtful gesture.

Claire slipped to his closet and examined his shirts. She measured them, unsurprised to find a variety of sizes. She couldn't do much about the ones too tight in the shoulder, but there were some that had been bought in a larger size to accommodate his newfound bulk. At the very least, she could take those in around the waist. She pulled a shirt from the hanger, then grabbed her sewing kit.

Claire walked back to the kitchen and draped his shirt over the table. She tried not to feel self-conscious as she pin-fit the shirt to something closer to Matt's measurements (thankfully, she had plenty of reference from the numerous times he had been without his shirt in the boxing hall). She furrowed her eyebrows, mind wandering.

She was going to meet Matt's friends tomorrow. They were going to discuss her options. It sounded great on paper, but there was a fundamental problem: Claire knew practically nothing. She could recite her story, but beyond explaining her own horror, it wasn't very informative.

Claire grimaced as she threaded her needle. What she did know about the situation implicated the majority of Manhattan—white men with native New York accents. And then she would be useless. Which wasn't surprising, considering how she had stopped thinking completely when it all happened. If Matt hadn't been there, Claire probably would have stayed until the police arrived hours later. Claire was in no way this shining asset that she and Matt kept pretending she was.

Mr. Solano had done an expert job of hiding his connection with the thugs, whatever it may have been. Maybe that was why he'd been so agitated the last few days, she realized. He had been jittery and short-tempered all week. Maybe he knew he was in trouble, maybe he was trying to do…something.

Claire sighed in frustration as she cut her thread. Again, she couldn't theorize much more than she already had. The only time he had told her _anything_ was when she'd been sitting beside him—

She sucked in a breath. He _had_ told her something. It wasn't much, but he had definitely told her to check the desk drawer. And then the beginnings of a request, though she had been too panicked to let him finished. That was so _stupid_ of her. She should have let him finish. It had been the man's last chance to explain, and she had screamed over him.

Claire ground her knuckles into her forehead. That couldn't be helped now. Instead she had to focus on the one clue they had. She had to tell Matt, maybe they could investigate. If they went back to the tailor's shop, maybe they might find _something_ that would help them piece together answers. Anything would be a godsend, at this point.

Claire resisted the urge to check the clock. Of course Matt wouldn't be home for hours. She just had to wait, be patient…

Claire whittled away the time. She finished altering Matt's shirt, swept up her clippings, then checked the dress she had borrowed to see if it had dried. She made lunch, read a book she had started the day before, and made a short list of things she wanted to tell Matt's friends. She also wondered how she and Matt were supposed to explain their relationship. His friends _might_ know he bare-knuckle boxed, but she doubted he would have mentioned her. Explaining why he had been there to save her would shine an uncomfortable amount of light on what feelings might or might not exist between them.

Claire was yet again tending to dinner when Matt came home. She smiled at him as he came through the door.

"Have a good day?" she asked.

"Yeah. Karen and Foggy are determined to help."

"Oh." Claire drew in a breath to steady herself, then nodded. "What did they say?"

"That they'd help, no question," he told her, a slight smile on his face.

"Even if it _is_ a mob thing?"

Matt's expression turned a little worn as he hung up his coat. "Foggy and I are lawyers. We know just how bad this could be. And Karen…well, she's seen her fair share of the wrong side of the law."

He walked into the kitchen, pausing by the table. Claire frowned at him.

"How so?" Claire asked, intrigued by this mystery secretary.

"She…led an interesting life before we met," he began. "Karen recently decided to turn a new leaf."

"How ugly is this leaf?" she pressed.

"Not too ugly, all things considered." Matt paused, looking like he was weighing practicality against confidentiality. "Karen…was raised in the family business of crime."

"Okay," Claire repeated. She should have been at least a _little_ taken aback by this, she knew that, but every new strange revelation was just another drop in her already full bucket. She probably would have accepted anything at this point. "That's…helpful, I think?"

Matt laughed and leaned against the table. "It would take God Himself to keep her from doing everything she can to make sure you get justice. Trust me. The ends justify the means, for her."

Claire nodded, then let out a slow breath. This was looking a little more manageable. If her hunch panned out as well, maybe they might even be able to make a plan, rather than just hide.

Claire held off explaining her realization under after they had eaten. She made small talk and agreed that they should go grocery shopping. When Matt said that tomorrow after the meeting would be best, Claire steeled herself.

"Actually…actually, I think tonight might be better."

"Tonight? Why?"

"I…I was thinking about what I'd tell Karen and Foggy, and I remembered that Mr. Solano was trying to tell me something. I'm not sure, but I think it was about all of this."

"Alright." Something closed off in Matt's face, a wariness appearing that said he was creating some distance in case he needed to disagree.

"He told me something was in the desk drawer," Claire said, plunging on. "I can't even guess what, but if we find it, it may help."

"When did he say that?" Matt asked. He was full on frowning now, though she couldn't tell if he was simply trying to remember or if he didn't like where she was headed. "I only heard him stutter a few words."

"He only said 'desk drawer'," Claire admitted. "But he wouldn't have told me if it wasn't important."

"So you want to go there and endanger yourself on a _theory?_ " Matt stood, picking up his dishes to put them in the sink.

"Yes." Claire looked Matt in the eye. "I know it'll probably be blocked off by the police, but if we go tonight, no one will see us. And if the mob _is_ covering this up like we think, they will want as few people looking at and thinking about it as possible."

" _Claire,_ that's insane. You can't go, especially not back to the crime you _witnessed._ Anyone could be waiting—"

"Matt," Claire said, putting her hands flat on the table, "I'm going."

"No," he said. He turned away to put his dishes in the sink. When he faced her again, his mouth was set. "Let me go instead. If you get hurt—"

"This is something I need to do," Claire insisted. She pushed to her feet, jaw locked. "I can't let you go out there for me."

"I can protect myself."

"Not from a gun! Not from killers! I will _never_ forgive myself if you _die_ because I'm too afraid to go."

"This isn't about—"

"Matt, listen to me." Claire grabbed his hand on impulse, _needing_ him to understand. She stared up at him, refusing to let himself shy away again. His face was pale, and the slightest bits of scruff were coming in, making him look a little more like the rugged brawler she was used to. "I know you're trying to protect me, but this is _my_ life. It may be really scary right now, but I deserve the right to sort it out myself. Help me, Matt. I can't do this alone. But I can't _not_ do it, either."

Matt's mouth was pressed into a tight line that said he dearly wanted to argue with her. Claire waited, staring him down.

"What happens if we _both_ go and get killed?" he asked. His voice was quiet, but also blunt bordering on harsh. Claire's grip on his hands tightened from anxiety.

"Then—that's the risk we run. But—"

" _Claire,"_ Matt sighed, almost growling in frustration. "No. I can't let that happen. If we _both_ die out there, then what's the point? We'll never figure out what actually happened to Solano, and Foggy and Karen will be left in the dark."

"They—"

"But they'll pick it up," he continued, cutting her off. "I know they will. They'll follow it through, possibly to the end. But I'd like to be there _with_ them when it happens, rather than make them do it alone because we were too bullheaded to think this through."

Claire glared at him, dying to protest but also understanding his point. She was also exquisitely aware that they were still holding hands. More than that, Matt was holding hers in a death grip, equally desperate to persuade her to his way of thinking. She fought the urge to look down and draw attention to it, quietly terrified that he would grow self-conscious and move away.

She stole a couple more seconds of closeness before she made herself speak.

"Then what?" she demanded. "What will we do?"

"Tell Foggy and Karen," he said simply. "They need to know everything. And then…we could see what they think about this."

" _Then_ we go. Together," she emphasized. She squeezed his hands, heart sailing at his reluctant nod.

"Yes. We'll go— _if_ they think it's worth it." From the defeat in Matt's voice, Claire had the feeling at least one of them would lean in her favor.

" _Thank you,_ " she whispered, "thank you so much." She beamed at him, lacing her fingers through his.

Claire knew the exact moment Matt felt he should pull back. There was the slightest softness in his eyes, almost tragic in its tenderness. Then he blinked it away. Matt stared at their hands for a long moment, then slowly let them go.

She let it happen. She knew she had already taken far more than was fair, and she had no right to be bitter she couldn't have more.

And she wasn't. Even as Matt stepped away, sliding out of the near nonexistent space between them, Claire didn't feel the silken hurt of before. She was sad, of course, but Claire _knew_ there was something more to this than he let on.

She gave them a few seconds, then asked, "We can still go to the market, right?" She silently thanked God her voice didn't shake.

"Yeah," Matt said. "Yeah, let's go now, then. If you're done eating, that is."

"Yes, I'm done."

Claire walked past Matt to get her coat. She closed her eyes as she slipped them on. Even though the greater part of society and Matt himself had said they couldn't be together, even though she was knotted and twisted and confused over the state of things between them, even though she knew this was the _least_ appropriate time to even consider them being together…the tiniest bit of hope fluttered in her chest. The timing, the location, the situation, and the color were all wrong, but she couldn't help but notice those few moments when Matt had _chosen_ to hold her close.

* * *

Matt had told the truth when he said he didn't care if people saw Claire leaving his apartment. Things were too serious for him to be concerned about image. And he certainly wouldn't be the first person in the building to be interested in someone of another color. The thing he dreaded were the comments _Claire_ would receive.

They reached the market without incident, though. Matt was quietly thankful he hadn't gone out of his way to make friends with anyone, else he would have to explain Claire's presence, which would have been uncomfortable at best.

Claire's eyes wandered the buildings as they walked. She seemed intrigued by the brickwork and cars, as though she could see the Irish oozing out of them.

"There's no music," she said at one point. "Why doesn't anyone play music?"

Matt recalled the songs that had filled the streets of Spanish Harlem, from the drums to the trumpets to the voices. In Hell's Kitchen, the occasional radio could be heard, but mostly it was the grumble of a work day winding down. All of Harlem had been buzzing with one thing or another. Hell's Kitchen felt tired in comparison. Everything was drab and grey—the laundry hanging in the alleys, the people trundling along the sidewalk, cars rattling down the road. There was no color, no excitement, no music.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Guess we're just not that interesting."

Claire laughed and shook her head. They walked past another building before Claire sighed. "I can't get over how different Hell's Kitchen is from Harlem. Even the English-speaking neighborhoods just feel… _different._ It's all one city, but it feels like a totally different world."

"How so?"

"Just in the little things," she said, waiting for a car to pass before crossing the road. "It's like the air is different. In Harlem, it's like you can hear the same names whispered all over. Mama Stokes, she's the big one. Her and her nephew, Cottonmouth, they run things. They keep things in line because the police don't care about the Latino and black neighborhoods."

"How do they do that?" Matt asked, tilting his head. Hell's Kitchen had its fair share of street gangs (they had been common as penny candy before the war, but Germany had either scared them to God or hardened them into proper criminals), but none were strong enough to actually run the area.

Claire gave a slight smile. "I don't know, honestly. It's always struck me as funny. Everyone knows Mama Stokes is the person you go to if you've got a problem, but we also know Cottonmouth will bloody some faces if he needs to. Of course, she taught him everything he knows. But it's kind of glamorous, you know? They run this club that's always lit up, has all these well-dressed people coming and going…"

"Think about joining them?" Matt asked, eyebrow raised.

"No, not yet," Claire laughed. "I'm fine just where I am."

Matt smiled with her for a moment, then asked, "So is it a good different or a bad one?"

"I don't know," she mused. "Just different. I used to think Sweeney's boxing hall was it, that was _your_ world. But that's really not."

Matt grinned, shaking his head. For how crooked Sweeney's treatment of the boxers was, Matt almost wished that was true. Things were simple there. Either a person won or lost, their blood and pain was worth something or it wasn't. There was no question about what was right or appropriate there.

And yet, Matt was still committing himself to this strange twilight world with Claire. No matter how 'free' he had been in the four walls of the boxing hall, he had still not been able to shake the depravity clinging to his skin.

 _And yet,_ Matt hadn't really _felt_ like a monster since he had almost kissed her.

"Do you have any family here?" Claire asked.

Matt looked at her in surprise. "Uhm, no."

"In the area, or at all?"

"At all. That I know of, at least," he confessed. "I never really knew my mother's family, and my dad was an only child."

"How long has you family been here?"

"My grandma came over from Ireland and met my grandad. He died before I was born and she when I was a kid."

Claire's face pulled in a look bordering on sadness, concern and sorrow mixing so prettily on her face. "That sounds so lonely. I mean, you saw _my_ family. We're all packed in on top of each other."

Mat smiled, recalling the unquestioning comfort they had all given each other in the face of Claire's tragedy. He had had something like that back in France—soldiers stacked together for lack of space, for warmth, for reassurance. There hadn't been any warmth in that misery, though. The stilted silence between rounds and the cacophony of gunfire hadn't left much time for deep seated comradery.

No, he had _wanted_ solitude after the crushing dark of the trench. His small apartment had been precious relief after the chaos of his days. At least for the first few years. Now…solitude had become habit.

"My parents both came here when they were younger," Claire continued, oblivious to the dark memories in Matt's head. "They had family here, but they were both born in the islands."

"Islands? They're not from the same place?"

"My dad was Afro Cuban," she explained. "My mom's Puerto Rican. _That_ caused a lot of trouble with my family. You could think the _world_ was going to end, to hear my mama tell it."

Matt furrowed his eyebrows, not sure if he understood. Claire chuckled to herself, the worries of the last few days lost as she remembered stories from her childhood.

"My mom's family were all light, light, _light_. They couldn't _believe_ my mama would go choose someone so dark. She really only got away with it because she was her daddy's favorite. My uncles were all _so_ relieved when Maribel came out as light as she did."

Matt laughed in surprise. He was more than well acquainted with the rules between white people and everyone else, but he had never expected the concept to cause separation between the rest of humanity.

They reached the market, and Claire took a purposeful step toward a stall before hesitating.

"What did you come here to get?" Claire asked. "I was going to buy enough for the week, but then I realized it's your house, so…"

"Go ahead," Matt told her. "I won't interfere."

She flashed him a quick smile, one so grateful it made his heart break.

Claire bustled through the market in search of the mysterious ingredients she needed. Neither one of them was surprised at the lack of spices and peppers she wanted, but she was satisfied with her haul from the butcher and grocery vendors.

Matt watched the vendors as they interacted with Claire. They all watched her expectantly after she made her selections, then cast a puzzled look at Matt when he produced a wallet. He tried not to notice the quality of their looks, the slightly raised eyebrows.

He had been telling the truth when he said he didn't care if people saw Claire, had been telling the truth when he told himself that he was not the only person to interact with people outside his own race. But he would be a fool if he pretended that his more traditional neighborhood wouldn't be shocked at his freely associating with a Hispanic woman. It wasn't like in the gin joints and dance halls, where it was too dimly lit and too doused with whiskey for any clear distinction to be made between skin color.

 _Although,_ he supposed that while they might have received less looks in those places, they certainly would have caused more suggestive assumptions.

Matt sighed through his nose. Buying vegetables was _not_ supposed to be one of the more difficult things in his week.

Claire was pleased as they walked back to the apartment. The streetlights clicked on, bathing them in warm light. Her eyes were shadowed under the brim of her hat, but they were livelier than they had been a couple days before. Progress, just like he'd hoped.

"Thank you for this," Claire said. He glanced at her, not sure what she meant. "I thought I'd go screwy staying inside any more. I know we _just_ went out yesterday, but…each day feels like forever."

Matt's mouth quirked as he nodded. "It's okay, Claire. Always."

Claire stopped walking. He looked back at her, frowning slightly. Her expression had abruptly turned serious, bordering on confused. Her voice had turned quieter when she spoke.

"Honestly, though, Matt. Why do you do it? You have no _idea_ what's going to happen, and yet you're giving me _everything._ Why are you doing this, Matt?"

He shrugged, his smile slipping slightly. Why _wouldn't_ he help her? Pulling Claire out of the shop had been purely gut instinct, saving someone from an undoubtedly horrid situation. Matt honestly would have done it for anyone.

Letting her stay, though, that had been a little less instinct and a little more… Well. Matt had already decided love was off the table, which only left lust and other ugly things, which he _knew_ wasn't (entirely) the case. Claire was worth so much more than that.

"It was the right thing to do," he said, praying she didn't see the half-lie in his face.

"But—" She bit down on the word, pressing her lips tight as she looked away. " _Why_ , Matt? I can't repay you in _any_ way for this. I can't make this worth everything you've given me."

"This isn't something you have to pay me back for."

Claire looked back at him, eyebrows drawn. There was an intensity in her face now, completely different from the fiery determination that had flared in his kitchen just a little while ago. Then, Matt had been ready to shake her by her shoulders, demand _why_ she was refusing to stay home and stay _safe._ Now he was both charmed and cornered by her honesty, uncertain which way he could move to keep from exposing himself even more.

"Thank you, Matt," she said, pushing as much meaning into the words as she could. "I guess that's what I'm trying to say. It's not just a quick acknowledgement or anything. I truly appreciate everything you've done."

He forced a smile and bobbed his head toward this apartment building. "It's my choice, Claire. If, uhm, you're ready, let's go."

"Yeah. Let's go home," she said.

Matt grimaced after she turned her back, cursing himself. _Why_ couldn't he have a proper conversation with her? Why couldn't he simply lay out exactly what he was thinking and feeling in this dirty, empty street, why couldn't he just clear the air and tell her that this _could not last?_ Why couldn't he just say that he was too much of a heaving wreck to properly love someone, that he truly did adore her passion and care and _goodness,_ but that was the exact reason why he had to stay away?

Why couldn't he explain to himself the reason he insisted on holding her at an arm's length, but within the confines of his own home?

Neither one of them said much as they walked back to his apartment. Matt couldn't even begin to guess what she was thinking about. The little glances he stole of her didn't tell him much; her hat brim was in the way, revealing only the edge of her cheek and her slightly pursed mouth.

There were only a few inches between them. A part of Matt wondered even now if it would _really_ be so bad if he crossed that gap. Some part of her _was_ interested in him, even after the glorious disaster that had been the last few days. He could feel it sometimes, crackling the air when they both lingered for just a moment too long. Matt might have been ready to shake her bodily in the kitchen, but he also had been ready to kiss the scowl from her face.

He shook his head. That was the devil speaking, it always was.

 _Just a little longer,_ he told himself. _She's here just a little longer._

Only problem was, he didn't know if he was reassuring himself that he didn't have that much farther to go, or if it was a lament that soon she could leave. And he didn't know which would be worse.

* * *

 _The Harlem Renaissance was a cultural revolution centered in black communities in Harlem, emphasizing art, literature, and music. Cultural icons such as Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, and Langston Hughes all established themselves during this time. These changes were felt throughout New York to varying degrees. Claire, living in Harlem, would be impacted more strongly in her every day life than most, even though she lives in the Hispanic part of Harlem. Matt, in Hell's Kitchen, would feel some, but more if he sought it out. More trendy, liberal parts of the neighborhood, such as those containing dance halls or catering toward the younger flapper and dandy images as mentioned in the chapter, would be the majority of this influence._


	11. find the righteous, find the true

_AN More of an exposition-y chapter, but I promise you there is some Good Stuff coming :o_

* * *

Matt fought not to pace as he waited for Karen and Foggy to knock. Telling them about Claire, explaining her role in this terrible situation, that had been easy. Foggy had been serious in his compassion, heart torn over the thought of Claire seeing such a horror. Karen had been more aggressive in her concern, pushing to her feet and nearly knocking her chair over as she demanded they help.

But now, inviting them to face not Claire, the unknown lead in a tragedy, but Claire, the woman that tended his wounds in the boxing hall and that currently slept in his bed and made him want to grab the stars and moon and stuff them into her hands just to prove that he _did_ care...

 _That_ was a Claire he was nervous about them meeting. It exposed too much, too much of his wants, fears, and flaws for him to ever be comfortable with.

But she had introduced him to _her_ family. It was only fair that he do the same with his.

Claire sat on the edge of a chair in the living room. Her gaze was out of focus, but she sat perfectly straight. She looked flawless, not a wrinkle in her dress, not a hair out of place. Matt felt a ripple of pride that she refused to appear like some helpless damsel in need of rescuing.

The hall creaked beyond his door, sending his heart into his throat. He stared at it, waiting, breath held in anticipation of the knock.

Claire jumped at the sound of someone's fist on the front door. Matt heard her stand up as he went to let his friends in, their hearts probably falling into the same frantic rhythm.

Matt opened the door and let Karen and Foggy in. They offered him quiet comforting smiles, but their eyes strayed over his shoulder to find Claire. Foggy saw her first, then flicked his eyes back to Matt in surprise. Matt's stomach tightened. He'd neglected to mention Claire was Hispanic. Which wasn't a problem, but it raised more questions, which meant more answers, which meant more of a truth he didn't know how to tell. Didn't want to tell, not when it felt so _impossible_ to get right.

But Foggy stepped past Matt like a perfect gentleman, hand extended. "Foggy Nelson."

"Uh—Claire Temple," she said, voice starting shaky but growing stronger.

"And I'm Karen Page," Karen said, sticking out her hand. "I'm glad you're okay."

Claire blinked once, then gave a quick smile. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you both."

"Matt told us what happened," Foggy continued. "We'll help any way we can."

Claire watched him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "Okay. Thank you."

"Here, let's get settled," Matt said, slightly amazed that he could speak past the lump in his throat.

Karen and Foggy obligingly removed their coats and hats, then walked to the living room. Karen produced a notebook and pencil from her bag as she sat at attention on the couch. She looked expectantly at Claire, who shifted from looking at her and Foggy. She cast a quick glance at Matt like she needed reassurance.

Foggy noticed, then gave him a long look of his own. Matt hadn't seen that particular expression in a while. It was the one that assessed the potential damage of whatever stupid thing Matt had done this time. Signing up for the war, coming back with the inability to sleep without being plagued by nightmares, going to bare-knuckle boxing halls to tame (sate) the demons in his soul, they all earned the weary, determined stare Foggy had perfected so well.

Matt couldn't tell what earned it now, though—harboring a woman that gangsters might be after, or letting a woman he cared too much for sleep in his bed?

Not that Foggy knew that. He couldn't, not from just one glance. Though Matt suspected that maybe Foggy would figure it out in two.

Foggy sat on the couch next to Karen, while Matt lingered by Claire's chair. He couldn't sit down, there was too much nervous energy strumming through him.

"Where do you want to start?" Karen asked.

Claire frowned at her. "Start what? Matt told you everything, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did. So, now I'm wondering where you want to start to take these bastards down."

* * *

Claire blinked at the woman before her. She was pretty in a way that slightly clashed in Claire's head. Her features were fine and almost elfin, a princess in a fairy story. Except there was a hardness to her that didn't belong in a children's tale, something belied by her stark makeup and blonde bob. Claire could see the hints of something dangerous in Karen, something that boded ill for those that got in her way.

"I…don't understand," Claire began. "Take them down?"

"We think things are heating up," Foggy said, fishing something from his pocket. He wasn't what Claire would call attractive—he was a little too chubby, his features a little too plain—but there was something appealing about him. He had a wounded seriousness to him, like he personally felt the pain of Claire's predicament. He seemed like a nice man, with the same high-energy earnesty Mr. Solano had had.

Claire swallowed and accepted the newspaper he pulled out of his pocket.

"From this morning," he said, looking from her to Matt.

Claire skimmed the article. It chewed over the official story of what had happened at the tailor's shop, only now it demanded the capture of this strange vigilante they were trying to blame. She frowned at it.

"They keep talking about the vigilante," Claire said. "Why, what's he got to do with this?"

"If they're trying to shift the attention off any potential mob activity, that would do it," Karen said. "People—well, some people—loved him when he was digging a hole in gangsters' pockets, even if he _did_ smash up a few sills in the process. It made them feel like these thugs couldn't do whatever they wanted, just because they trafficked in booze."

Claire nodded. She knew that, she'd _been_ one of those people until just a couple of days ago.

"But if he's just as bad as the mobsters…the line between love and hate is only so big."

"It kinda feels like two birds with one stone," Foggy said, shrugging. "Cover up the murder, get this guy off their back. _If_ it really is one guy, which I have my doubts on."

Claire handed the newspaper to Matt. She made herself look at Foggy as she said, "If they're leaning on the papers, then they have connections. What's the likelihood that they know about me?"

"I'd guess they're searching your neighborhood," Karen said, leaning forward. "It's a good thing Matt was there and could offer you shelter in Hell's Kitchen."

Claire nodded again, face heating. She said a quick prayer that none of these gangsters would be led back to her family. _Then_ she prayed Karen wouldn't ask why Matt had felt the need to go all the way to Spanish Harlem to talk to her. Unless Matt had already told them. Which was frankly too mortifying to even consider at the moment.

"You really shouldn't go back there," Foggy said. "Try to avoid any place you've had contact with."

Claire pressed her lips together, refusing to look at the smug validation Matt undoubtedly had on his face.

"But—I thought of something that might help us," she said. Matt shifted behind her, his triumph just as easily turning to disapproval.

"What?" Karen asked, eyes lighting up.

"I think Mr. Solano gave me a clue before he died, some hint as to what on earth he was doing to get mixed up with these guys."

"What was it?"

"He—he told me to look in his desk drawer."

"He _actually_ just said 'desk drawer'. That could be _anything,_ " Matt said stubbornly.

"No, I'm sure," Claire insisted. "I still have the key to the store, so we could slip in the back if it's locked. If something's there, we could find it."

"I'm all for pursuing this, but charging in is _not_ the way to go," Foggy said. He slicked his hair back as he thought, catching the few strands that had fallen into his face.

"I think now is _definitely_ the time to charge," Karen said, turning to face him. "I don't think these weasels are going to forget there's a loose end. We can't let Claire live in hiding all her life!"

"How are we going to _charge_ mobsters?" Claire asked.

She stared at Karen, thinking that, while she had felt confident having at least _one_ more clue, she by _no_ means had enough to take on the _mob._ Surely men that were wealthy enough and powerful enough to fill the city with illegal alcohol weren't about to be taken down by a single woman.

"We don't know _who_ these people are, or how they're connected to Mr. Solano, or even _what_ exactly they're doing. I am _all_ for fighting these people, but I don't see how we can do it."

Karen groaned, rolling her eyes like she couldn't believe Claire was siding with the boys. "Claire, someone needs to _stop_ these people. They're only going to get stronger, and then it will be impossible!"

Claire leaned back in her chair, hands pressed over her eyes. She really, _really_ wanted to sleep.

"How are we going to charge mobsters?" she repeated, murmuring it to get herself to think.

"We do it in court," Matt said.

Claire turned to him, having momentarily forgotten he was beside her. He didn't look down, but rather stared at his friends. There was a slightly resigned expression on Karen's face and a considerate one on Foggy's.

"Court?" she repeated. "That's a way to do it, but we still don't have anything to _get_ them there."

"No, but this is an idea. Now we're not wandering in the dark. _And_ we're not trying to fool ourselves into thinking we can go out in a blaze of glory," Foggy said.

"Solano had to be involved somehow," Karen said, grudgingly giving up her plan of decisive action. "If they had to silence him, he was making noise to _someone._ "

"Who could he have been talking to?" Claire asked. " _I_ had no idea what was going on, and I worked with him every day."

"Police, maybe? Or the feds."

"What are the chances it was a member of the Prohibition Bureau?" Matt asked.

Karen sighed and ran a hand through her bob. "A probie? It's possible, but I don't know them. They're new. They _might_ be on the level, but they could be just as corrupt as the police."

"Who _isn't_ corrupt these days?" Foggy grumbled. He pressed his fingers against his eyes as he spoke. "Booze is _really_ nice to have."

"I think I need a drink myself," Claire sighed.

"Okay, but _listen,_ " Karen said, holding her hands out. " _If_ we can find who he was talking to, maybe we can figure out more of what he knew. Work backwards from there. Maybe Solano just suggested a meetup, maybe he told the whole thing. It's a good bet."

"And how are we going to find _that?_ " Matt asked, voice flat.

Karen looked from him to Claire like she knew his gaze would burn. "Go find what your boss meant by 'desk drawer'. The _only_ way we can even _hope_ to fight this is by getting information."

Claire glanced around the room. Karen was determined, Foggy concerned, and Matt… She grimaced when she saw his expression, displeased but closing it off, hiding what he felt. Claire sat quiet for a moment, then straightened.

"Why…are you guys so committed?" she asked. "I'm grateful, certainly, but just…taken aback. Why are you so ready to risk yourselves for me?"

"We just want to right some wrongs," Foggy said with a tired smile. "And from what Matt told us, you definitely deserve some help."

Claire blinked, shocked at the sudden heat of tears. She looked down, smoothing her hands over her skirt as she waited for them to pass. "I—thank you, then. This…has been hard."

"I believe it," Foggy said. "And it's probably only going to get harder. I just have to ask you to stay _safe._ " He looked from her to Matt on the last phrase, as though he knew full well Matt's insistence on taking the brunt of danger.

To Matt's credit, he cracked a smile and nodded. "Of course. We'll be careful."

"Good," Foggy sighed. He stood up and smoothed his hands over his vest. "We've got a court date later this week. I can't have you sporting a shiner while we defend a drunk disorderly."

"Tell us _everything_ you find," Karen added as Foggy walked toward the door with Matt. "This is the best lead we have right now."

"What are you two going to do?" Claire asked.

Karen shrugged. "I'm going to chase down the leads _I_ have, and Foggy…he's probably going to worry and give everyone sage advice. He's the kind of person that keeps everything together, while Matt and I do dangerous things."

"Like what?"

"Get information from criminals."

Claire gave Karen a long look, not sure what to do with the last half of her statement. Matt had _said_ Karen had experience with 'dubious situations', but Claire hadn't thought he meant it quite so…criminal-y.

"Do you… _often_ get information from criminals?"

"Well, not _usually,_ not any more, at least. It depends on the case we're working on."

She considered the woman a moment, then asked, "Is that why you're so _good_ at this? We're talking about something crazy, and you're acting like it's normal."

Karen shrugged again, lips quirking. "Honestly? You wanna know?"

" _Yes._ "

"My dad was a con artist," she said, eyes fixed somewhere around the ceiling.

Claire stared at her. "You're not playing with me, are you? No baloney?"

"No baloney," Karen said, giving her first real smile of the night. It lit her entire face, banishing the image of a world-wearied woman. "We traveled all over Europe. He taught me everything I know."

Claire blinked a few times, then let out a laugh. Why not? Everything else had gone slightly mad.

"And they know?" she asked. She tipped her head toward Matt and Foggy, who were talking by the coat rack.

"Of course," Karen said, her expression turning a little more wry. "We first met because someone framed me after I left the life."

Claire gaped at Karen. "I feel like your office has a _lot_ of secrets in it. I know about Matt's boxing, but what about Foggy? What's he hiding?"

"He bakes," Karen said with a wicked grin. "You should ask him for lemon cake once we beat this."

Claire watched Karen walk out the door, wishing she had at least some of that woman's confidence.

* * *

 _AN I love everyone. I love that they are friends, I love that they trust and listen to each other, I love that they are one big happy family. I just love people making good choices and having supports._


	12. costs and benefits

_AN Remember when I promised you the good stuff? This is the good stuff._

* * *

As much as Matt had worried about Foggy and Karen coming over, he dreaded them leaving even more. Them leaving meant it was time for Claire to put herself in danger. Only now it was endorsed by Karen.

Sure enough, it only took Claire a few moments before she turned expectantly to Matt.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "First, let's go through this. We need a plan."

Claire watched him for a moment, then said, " _Well?_ What have you got?"

"Go to the shop and look in the desk drawer," he said, pointedly dead-panning her exceptionally vague clue. She made a face at him but continued.

"Okay, what else? You being the wise guy that wanted to go alone."

"Well," he said, scrambling for time. He _hadn't_ actually made a plan, preoccupied as he was by resenting Claire coming along. Not that he would have necessarily come up with one in the first place. "Go there, look around. If nothing looks promising, come back."

Claire watched him, mouth pursed in concentration. She glanced up at the ceiling, mouth pursed like she was holding back something. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but when she looked back her gaze was steady.

"Okay," she said, face painted with innocence. He raised an eyebrow. She was _definitely_ hiding something from him.

"If it looks dangerous, we go back," he insisted.

"And what does dangerous look like?" she asked, smothering a smirk as she slipped past him.

This time, Matt and Claire took the subway to Spanish Harlem. Matt stood while Claire took a seat, just enough space between them to keep people from making assumptions. Claire watched the floor as they rattled on, stealing peeks at Matt at each stop. She was nervous, her eyebrows pinched together. He gave her a thin smile, but kept his hands on the support and not in hers.

Twenty minutes later, they walked the streets of Harlem. They moved fast, edging through the work crowd. Matt couldn't help but scan the streets, ready for something to leap out at them.

Claire forged on ahead, either leaving her fear back on the train or pretending it had never existed. This wasn't the scared girl returning to see her family, unsure of the damage left in her wake. This was a woman on a mission, determined to set things right. Matt couldn't help but envy that surety.

Solano Tailoring was an unfriendly ghost of what it had been. The front door had been sectioned off, and people on the street still gave it a berth. Matt's eyes skimmed the darkened windows. He had only seen the store once, but he distinctly remembered the honeyed warmth of the lit windows.

Or maybe that was just seeing Claire inside. No, no, it couldn't have, not when he was going in with the express purpose of keeping _them_ from happening. Not that he had any grand illusions that a bit of idle flirting would gave way to something so impressive as _coming home_ to Claire.

Matt shook himself. His head was in entirely the wrong place for what they were about to do.

"Okay, let's go around the back," Claire said. They looped around the block, ending in the alley behind the shop. Matt's mouth pressed into a troubled line as he gazed at the alley. Three days. He had been here just three days ago, hat in hand, heart in mouth.

And then Solano had been murdered, and Claire's life had crumbled around her ears.

He worked his jaw, resisting the urge to push himself between Claire and the door. It wasn't like a gunman was lying in wait for them to do this exact stupid thing.

Matt's palms began to sweat.

"Remember, first sign of danger," he murmured into Claire's ear. She glanced at him over her shoulder, but rather than complaining, she gave him a shaky nod. Apparently, her confidence had disappeared as well.

Claire produced a key from her pocket, the one he belatedly recalled her holding after their escape from the shop.

"Do you think it'll be locked?" he asked, eyeing the police blockade on the back steps.

"We didn't lock it when we left, but it can't hurt."

Claire sidestepped the blockade and tried the handle. The door opened, creaking inward. She flashed him a hopeful smile and disappeared inside. Matt looked over the alley once more, then followed.

The shop interior was dark, making the light from the overcast sky more sulky than subdued. Claire was a ghostly shape in the storage room, rustling around before appearing with a lit candle. Matt let out a short breath as she sent the creeping shadows flying.

She paused in the hallway, face lit by one tiny flame as she looked up at him. He noticed she refused to turn her head toward the short hallway leading to the main room. That was probably a good thing, considering Matt couldn't tell if the dark shapes on the floor were shadows or bloodstains.

"Alright?" he asked gently.

"Yes, I just…realized the last time I saw Mr. Solano, I was _angry_ with him." She let out a slow breath, then forced a smile. "Guess that teaches me."

Claire hurried into the office before Matt could comment on the break in her voice.

"Any idea what we're looking for?" Matt asked, opening drawers. She shrugged, holding another lit candle out to him without turning around.

"No. I was hoping for a file or note or even a _photograph…_ " Claire began. They worked in silence, rifling through the drawers and cabinets. Matt's hand skimmed over old notes, opened envelopes, and an assortment of pens. Claire extended her search to the whole office, picking through cabinets and shelves in desperation. Finally, Matt put a hand on her shoulder.

"There's nothing here, Claire," he murmured. She stopped picking over a stack of papers, but didn't turn around. Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. His heart panged at the dead end, that she had fought so hard only to be rewarded with nothing. Matt didn't take his hand away. After a moment, he let himself step closer. Claire leaned back into his touch, slicing away at the sparse few inches between them.

Matt bent his head a little closer to hers, mouth practically brushing the edge of her hat. He could smell lavender again, just soft enough to be enticing. He opened his mouth, partly so the smell could wash over him a little more, partly so he could say something. But only silence slipped past his lips. Matt grimaced and made himself let go. Claire gave an unsurprised sigh.

"The chances he would just _leave_ evidence where I could find it…" she mumbled, then shook her head. "Okay. Okay, there's one more place we can look."

"What? Where?"

Claire faced him, jaw set. "His house."

"His _house?_ " Matt demanded. "No, no way. There's an even bigger chance things will go sideways if we go there. We're pushing it as it is."

"But it's just a couple blocks away!" she insisted. Her candle danced crazily in her hand as she spoke, making her glance down at it in worry. She let out a huff and glared at Matt. "Like you said, we don't have a lot to go on. Why on earth would we stop before we try all our options?"

"Because all our options include _bullets._ "

"And you're telling me you wouldn't try it if you were _alone?"_

"I never even _considered_ going to his house!" he hissed, forcing himself to keep his voice low.

"If you had, you would have been fine doing it by yourself."

"No, I wouldn't." Matt didn't enjoy the thought of being shot at—he'd had enough of that overseas. But if it came down to it, he much preferred _him_ getting hurt over Claire.

They glared at each other, both lit from beneath by their candles. Matt pursed his lips. He was _really_ getting tired of arguing with her.

(Although, he secretly liked seeing the intensity in her face when she opposed him. It was irresistibly attractive when she clenched her jaw and stretched ever so slightly so that their faces were almost even.)

Matt looked away before he got himself into trouble.

"How many blocks?" he asked.

"Three," Claire said, not quite ready to give into triumph.

He looked at her, then looked at the window. "It'll be dark, soon."

"And it looks like it's going to rain."

 _"Promise_ me you'll run if—"

"If there's even a hint of danger," Claire said. "I know."

He checked the window again, then nodded. He needed to get out of this damn tiny office and into the fresh air, where he had more to smell and hear and see than just Claire.

Claire blew out her candle and left the office. "Come on," she said. "It's a short walk."

Despite her stubborn confidence, Claire was skittish as they made their way to Solano's home. She glanced around the growing shadows, ready for something to leap out at them. Matt's neck prickled, though he didn't know if it was from paranoia, real danger, or the impending sense that rain was going to fall. He wished he had a gun instead of just his hands.

By the time Claire led him down a narrow alleyway between buildings, a soft drizzle was falling from the gloomy sky. The water collecting on Claire's hat caught the streetlamps, glittering like she was covered in stardust.

"Is Solano's family going to be alright with us just showing up?" Matt asked.

Claire shook her head. "Mr. Solano never married. He has a sister, though, who lives down the street."

"Were you close to them, then?" he asked, waving his hands at the building they were skirting.

Claire rounded the corner of the building, voice low when she spoke. "I guess so."

She didn't sound convinced.

They slunk down another alley, then reached the back of Mr. Solano's home. Matt surveyed the windows before turning to Claire.

"Do we have to break a window?"

"No, there should be…okay, here." She turned over a couple of bricks meant to prop the door open. One of them proved to be hollow, revealing a key taped to the inside.

Claire unlocked the door, then let Matt in.

Solano's home didn't have the eeriness of the office. It might have been the knowledge that there had never been a corpse on the floor, but the place merely felt sleepy and sad. And a little more well off than Matt expected. He raised his eyebrows as he surveyed the dark kitchen, impressed at the fine furnishings. Tailoring was a good business, when it didn't get people killed.

Claire rummaged the kitchen, finding another candle and a set of matches. She struggled with the matches a moment, though Matt couldn't tell if it was due to anxiety or rainwater sliding from her fingers onto the head of the match. He held the box steady for her. Claire paused, looking up at him. Neither one said anything as she struck the match and lit the candle.

"I think the desk he's talking about is upstairs," she said, leading him out of the kitchen.

They ghosted through the townhouse, the building's every groan and creak setting Matt a little more on edge. The halls were dark and strange, the carpet stealing their steps and the glass on the picture frames scattering the candlelight. The windows cast yellow squares on the floor and walls, offering Matt glimpses of Claire's skirt, neck, hand.

"Mr. Solano sometimes had me run errands for him," Claire told the darkness. "Mostly, he would forget something at home, like notes for a suit, or part of a dress, and he'd send me to get it. Once, he went on vacation to California and couldn't remember if he'd closed all his windows."

She gave a tiny laugh that sounded a little more choked than it should have. Matt stared awkwardly ahead as they reached the end of the hall. This was where he comforted her, he could tell. This was where he was supposed to touch her back and whisper she was okay and run a hand through her hair.

He grimaced. The line between decency and desire had become so blurred over the last few days that Matt no longer knew what was safe to do. He watched Claire step into the room, his hands clenched at his sides. He didn't want to have to sacrifice comforting Claire or treating her with any level of familiarity because he couldn't control himself.

But then, Matt thought darkly, resignedly, hopelessly, that was the devil for you; working in many, wicked ways.

Matt followed Claire into the room, which proved to be a combination of an office and a workspace. A small writing desk sat against the far wall, while a chest of drawers was pushed into the right hand corner. A dress form sat between the two, a partially made dress still sitting on it.

Claire ignored the dress form and went straight to the desk. Matt took the candle from her so she could search with both hands, leaving her to the light from the rain-streaked windows. He examined the bookshelf on the back wall. One shelf was completely dedicated to sewing, while the rest of the books varied from novels to biographies to magazines.

"Now we've got it!" Claire said, making Matt jump and face her. She grabbed a key from a drawer and faced him. Excitement shone on her face as she held it out.

Relief washed through Matt, spreading a smile over his face. The key was too small for a door, smaller even than Matt's pinky.

"It looked like it's for a safe or lock box," he said.

"Yes! That certainly sounds like something Mr. Solano would lead us to!" Claire said, part question, part declaration.

Matt nodded and gestured at the room. "Do you think it'd be in here?"

"Honestly, it could be anywhere. But I don't know why he would keep the key in a different place from where the safe is."

They began searching, pulling paintings from the walls, checking for loose floorboards, and investigating the chest of drawers. Matt found the safe behind the writing desk, a little gleam of metal set into the wall.

Claire helped him shift the desk aside, leaving them to stare at the safe. Claire clenched the key in her hand, knuckles pressed against her mouth.

"What if this isn't it?" she whispered.

Matt glanced at her. "We'll find another angle. Don't worry, Claire."

She sucked in a breath and unlocked the safe. It wasn't very big, roughly large enough for a small stack of books. The paper files staring back at them were underwhelming, a sad sheaf that could be anything.

Claire grabbed them and handed a few files to Matt. He skimmed the documents in his hands, eyes sliding over a folder of letters dated during the war, a few papers for Solano's business, and his birth certificate. There was something embarrassingly intimate about looking through a dead man's life.

"Find anything?" he asked.

"A copy of his will," Claire murmured. Matt looked up in concern, but her expression as more tired than devastated. "He took very good care of his sister's family."

Matt touched her shoulder. Claire gave him a quick smile and took a shaky breath.

"Okay," she said, steeling herself. "Okay, okay. O—oh my word."

Matt looked over the top of the file she had just opened. It as a stack of handwritten papers, the words written in varying pencils and pen ink.

"What is it?"

Claire shook her head and turned the paper toward Matt. He tilted his head to read it, stomach tight. It was written more like a report than a diary, the account boringly factual. Solano visited one of his clients to tailor a suit, then—

 _I pretended not to notice, but there were guns under those men's suit coats._

Matt looked at Claire in surprise. She pointed to a spot lower on the page.

 _I overheard them discuss importing Irish whiskey or Canadian bourbon. I would have ignored it, expect Mr. Fisk ordered the dealers be murdered if they attempted to change the deal._

Matt and Claire stared at each other. Matt hadn't expected a _clue,_ much less a detailed account of what had happened. Now that it was in his hands, he didn't know what to do.

"We'd better—" Claire began, then froze.

A creak sounded from downstairs. Then another.

" _Shit,_ " Matt breathed. He closed the file and grabbed a paperclip to keep it shut, then pushed it into Claire's hands. She blew out the candle and set it on the desk as he grabbed a metal paperweight.

They hid by the doorway, waiting for the intruders to walk in. Claire crossed herself and mouthed the Lord's Prayer.

Matt's mind was quiet for once. The buzzing distractions from moments before were gone, silenced by danger. He hadn't felt this way in years. Not even boxing matches caused this, savage and godless as they were.

Maybe that was where Matt went wrong. He sought to sate, not to silence. If he just risked his life a little more, maybe he would have been better off.

A man entered the room, gun first. Matt lashed out, paperweight in hand. Boxer quick, it collided with the man's forehead. He reeled, and Matt kicked the side of his knee. The man dropped to the floor. Matt snatched up his gun.

Then the world moved very fast.

" _Go!"_ Matt yelled as someone down the hall shouted in surprise. Claire barreled out of the room, colliding with the other man. Matt kicked the disarmed one in the stomach for good measure, grabbed his gun, then launched after her.

The man in the hall chased after Claire, taking the steps three at a time. Matt shoved him in the back, sending him flying into the landing wall. He rounded the corner just in time to see Claire grabbed by another mobster, her screams loud in his ears. She tried kicking, biting, anything she could without letting go of the folder.

Then the man saw Matt bearing down on him and fumbled with his gun. Matt slammed the butt of his own gun between the gangster's eyes, making him release Claire.

They sprinted out the back door and were immediately pelted by rain. Matt pushed Claire ahead, flinching as a gunshot tore through the air. The bullet lodged into the brickwork overhead, sending rubble onto their shoulders as they passed.

Claire ran ahead as Matt wheeled around to fire off a shot, just enough to slow their pursuers down. More gunshots chased them from the alley, loud and echoing and agonizingly like mortar shells. Matt focused on Claire ahead of him, her shoulders soaked by the rain, her coat flying behind her. He breathed hard, glanced at the reflection in the store windows he raced by, then wheeled to take on the man just behind him.

Matt's first punch was sloppy, allowing the man to block it with his arm. He dodged Matt's second and raised his gun. Matt kneed him in the stomach and fired off a shot at the thug running toward them. The gangster Matt was fighting flinched and dropped to his knees, reeling from the discharge by his ear. Matt slammed the gun between the man's shoulder and neck, sending him to the ground. Then Matt fired again at the man farther down the sidewalk, grazed his shoulder, then again, backing away.

The gun clicked, empty— _what idiot doesn't load his gun all the way—_ and Matt hurled it at their pursuers. He turned around and ran without seeing if he hit his mark.

Claire watched him from the end of the block, horridly mesmerized by this new brand of violence. Once she saw Matt pelting toward her, she resumed running.

" _Dammit I told you not to stop!"_ he hissed at her, catching up and pushing her forward.

Claire didn't answer, just barked, " _Subway!",_ stabbing a finger at the entrance.

They both ran into the street, dodging around cars. People were yelling now, finally aware of the little burst of chaos on the road.

Another gun cracked across the street, and then Matt's arm burned like a knife had sliced cross it. He gasped, stumbling and almost falling beneath the wheels of a truck before he righted himself. He clamped his hand over the bullet wound—just a graze, really, nothing in the long run—and raced down the steps to the subway entrance.

Claire was paying for her ticket when he reached the bottom of the stairs, hands fumbling as she grabbed coins from her purse. She slipped through, already looking back for Matt. He was about to call out to her when a hand grabbed the back of his coat. Matt choked on the words as his collar cut into his throat. He writhed to get away as the person dragged him back up the steps. He slammed his elbow back, sickly satisfied when it slammed into a body.

Matt shoved himself down the steps as the hand let go, going too fast to stop before the ticket booth. He leaped over the turn stile, ignoring the attendant's shouts. Matt grabbed Claire's arm as he sprinted past, tugging her along. He glanced over his shoulder to see the gangsters caught by the irate attendant and people swarming from the trains. A gun went off, churning the crowd into a mob.

Matt and Claire dashed down the hall, hands bracing against the walls when they slipped. He didn't check if they were still being followed, focusing instead on breaking away from the crowd to reach the train. The doors were already being closed, they wouldn't make it, they were going to reach it just as the train pulled away—

" _Wait!"_ Claire shrieked at the attendant working on the doors. He hesitated, seeing Claire waving at him. Matt was going too fast, though, and he grabbed her up as he sailed into the car. He cradled her, turning so his shoulder took the brunt of the blow. Matt grunted as the air was shoved out of him, dazed from the impact.

Claire clutched onto him, staring at the staircase as the attendant hesitated, closed their door, then moved on. One of their pursuers thundered down the stairway.

Both Matt and Claire tightened their grips on the other, breaths held, eyes wide, counting the seconds as the train started moving, picking up speed, stretching the gap between them and the men—

They left the platform.

Matt let out a slow breath. He rested his forehead against Claire, her brim pushing his hat slightly off his head. She relaxed into him, her pants easing with each second.

They didn't say anything. Matt guessed from the creaky silence around them that the car was empty, allowing them a moment of peace. He stroked his thumb over Claire's arm, so blessedly relieved they had made it through safe. They were both soaked and rattled, but aside from the graze on Matt's arm and some bruises, they were unhurt.

Claire leaned into him, her face turning into his coat. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as her breath played across his skin. He closed his eyes on the image of her mouth, parted ever so slightly next to his skin.

Matt's arms tightened around her, pulling her just barely closer. Claire adjusted her grip on his coat, transferring the angry bunch of fabric to a secure hold on his lapels. He could feel the folder she had tucked into her coat pressed between them, the edges digging into his chest. She shifted, mouth barely touching his jaw.

Matt pulled his face back and let go of her. " _No,"_ he gasped, shaking his head.

Claire stared at him, dumbfounded. She hesitated, then slipped off his lap. There was a burning moment of silence as she sat beside him.

"Why?" Claire asked, the word hard and painful in the quiet.

"You know why," he said, even though they both knew that was an excuse. He had never actually _said_ why. First Claire hadn't wanted to hear, then he hadn't wanted to say.

"No, I _don't,_ " she said, voice hardening with each word. She glared at him, face still too close. He glared back, face burning even as a trail of frigid rain water slipped down his neck.

" _Claire—"_

"Answer me, Matt! Why are you always _running_ from this? Just give me an answer."

He pushed away from the bench, shaking his head. He stood there, back to her, giving himself time. Matt took off his hat to give his hands something to do. His arm throbbed in pain with each heartbeat, a pain more manageable than the one in his chest. He glanced down at it. There was a small tear in his coat, the fabric singed and faintly stained with watered down blood.

"How's the file?" he asked.

"Fine." There was a loud smack as Claire pulled it from her coat and dropped it beside her on the bench. Her reflection in the window had its arms tightly crossed, mouth set in a harsh line.

"You're going to have to talk to me," she said after a moment. "We're stuck in this subway car until the next stop."

"Claire, it's not really the best time. _Gangsters_ just chased us through the _streets,"_ he said, facing her. "Isn't that more pressing than this?"

"I don't _know_ , Matt!" she snapped. Angry tears threatened to fall down her face, ready to disappear in the rainwater still clinging to her skin. "I can barely _think_ about that, much less change it! So I'm going to deal with the one thing I can. _Help_ me, Matt."

Matt shook his head. "There's nothing we can do here, either."

"That's not good enough! _Why_ are you so dead set against us when I _know_ —"

"Know _what_?" he asked harshly. She flinched at his suddenly change in volume. Matt bit his tongue. "Claire, what's the use in talking about it? You know we can't— _I_ can't, so why—"

"Is it because I'm Hispanic?" she asked, the words blunt enough that he almost choked. "Is it because my daddy's black and my mother's Hispanic?"

" _No,_ no—that's not the problem, not for me, but—"

"Then you're too scared of what other people will say?" she demanded. Claire got to her feet, barely even swaying as the train took a turn.

"No, although you can't deny that it _would_ cause problems. But there are other reasons— we can't—"

"Can't _what_?" she spat, eyes narrowed. "We can't _what?"_

"You know exactly what."

"Then say it," she dared him. "Say it, prove to me you actually acknowledge what this could be!"

He worked his jaw and stayed silent.

Claire let out a bark of laughter and looked around the train car, like maybe someone could see the ridiculousness of the man before her. She faced him again, expression now colored by something akin to pleading.

" _Talk_ to me, Matt," she said, voice lower but more intense. "Just tell me what's going on."

"I can't—it's not that simple," he said, suddenly afraid that she would squeeze the horrific truth out of him, that he would be forced to voice the filthy black demons that had inhabited him long before the war woke them up.

"You haven't given me any reasons why it's not."

"Claire, just trust me on—"

"How can I trust when you won't tell me—"

"You wouldn't want to know—"

"But that's why I'm _asking_ —"

" _What if I hurt you?_ "

Claire shook her head. "That's the risk _everyone_ runs in a relationship. You can't—"

"What if I _hit_ you?!" he demanded, and there it was.

What if he lost himself to that smothering darkness and lashed out at Claire? What if he went temporarily mad, like some veterans did, what if he woke up to find her cowering and bleeding because _he—_

He couldn't stand to think it. But it pounded through his brain anyway, traitorous and so desperately afraid. Loving Claire had never been an issue of skin color or cultural backgrounds or social status. It always, _always_ centered on the haunting fear that he would harm the person he so desperately wanted to protect.

Claire stared at him. Her mouth was open, but that was more the product of shock than the need to speak.

Matt looked down at the floor.

The train started to slow, interrupting the suffocating silence of the car. Matt glanced at the windows and put on his hat. Claire picked up the file and held it to her chest. They didn't look at each other as the attendant came by and opened the doors.

They melted into the crowd, leaving the empty train car without so much as a trace of the hurt that had just filled it.

* * *

 _AN SUCH GOOD STUFF._


	13. treading water

_AN Thank you everyone for that wonderful response! I was so excited for you to read the chapter, and you all seemed to enjoy it like I hoped :D Now, though, have a bit of a slower chapter to recover._

* * *

Claire sat in the window sill of Matt's bedroom, watching the street slowly wake up. She'd been awake for the better part of an hour, miserable and tired but unable to return to sleep.

Not that she had had much luck sleeping during the night. Nightmares had plagued her, last night's tiny taste of chaos transforming into a haze of bullets and rain water and kneeling in Mr. Solano's blood. And then when she was awake, Claire had been attacked by the headache that was her relationship with Matt.

Their argument on the train still needled her, hurt and confusion and curiosity all mixing up into one hideous mess.

She shouldn't have brought it up, not after being chased by _gangsters._ But it truly _had_ been a case of now or never, that much she did know. That moment of them holding each other had been too sweet for her to let go without a fight.

And it really had turned into a fight. Claire shouldn't have been surprised, really. Matt _was_ a fighter, after all. During the day he battled with logic and words in a court room, and at night he used his fists and raw aggression to make people submit. She should not have been so surprised when he fought her on the subject. She should not have been so hurt.

Claire leaned her head against the window pane, the glass cold on her forehead. They hadn't spoken the entire way home, and said little more once they arrived. Matt had warmed up leftovers from the ice box, and they had eaten in different rooms. Claire had been agonizingly aware of him in the living room, shoulders hunched against the world. The glances she stole of him didn't seem so precious, just then.

Claire checked the clock on the nightstand. Barely seven. She wrapped her robe— _his_ robe—a little tighter around her.

It was Sunday today. She wasn't sure what Matt intended to do. She _assumed_ he went to church every week, considering the rosary and iconic guilt he carried into the boxing hall.

Which left her at home. It would be for entirely practical reasons, she knew (she had to stay out of sight, and despite the preaching of acceptance for all men, Claire had the feeling she was a few shades too dark for some of the people Matt went to service with), but Claire couldn't help but think it felt personal after the fight.

Things were just too damn hard these days.

A bird landed on the fire escape outside, bobbing its head and ruffling its wings. Claire watched it for a long moment.

Men had come to kill her. Just as Matt had said, they had lied in wait and then swarmed down, guns blazing. She had almost been shot—Matt _had_ been, though it was just a graze.

This was real. Talk of the mob wasn't merely theoretical anymore, it was fact. Her life and the lives of Matt's entire _office_ were on the line, simply because she had been in the wrong place and seen the wrong thing.

She wrapped her arms around her knees.

It was hard to believe that barely a week ago, she had walked to work with Reynaldo. The world couldn't have been more normal, more mundane. His concern over the boxers seemed charming in a childish, silly sort of way.

(Boxers. She'd only felt safe at a boxer's side.)

She had told Reynaldo that she would know if she were ever in over her head. She was, now, struggling and fighting to reach the surface just a few inches out of reach. And if there were any more dumb risks like the one she'd taken yesterday, those few inches would turn into a ruthless six feet.

Claire buried her face in her knees. She was still too stunned to cry. It would come, though, in an hour, a day, a week. All of this would hit her and then—

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Matt cautiously opened the door. His eyes found her in the window, wrapped tight in his bathrobe.

"I just needed to grab some clothes, sorry." He stepped inside, focused on his task. Claire watched him pull an undershirt from the drawer until it became apparent he wasn't going to look around.

She rested her chin on her knees. The bandage on Matt's arm was a blunt reminder of her arrogance. Claire had been caught up in some idyllic fantasy land where bullets didn't land and she could play house with Matt and unearth mysteries in her spare time. That was so, _so_ foolish of her. This all had started because Mr. Solano had beenmurdered in cold blood.

"How's your arm?" she asked tentatively. Matt hesitated before his closet, pants in hand.

"It's fine," he said, offering her a thin smile. Claire made herself smile back. Matt disappeared into the bathroom.

She drifted into the kitchen. She pulled a pot from the cabinet and put it on the stove, hands moving thoughtlessly to make avena. She didn't want to have to keep carrying on like nothing had happened. She _wanted_ to hug her mother until it was easier to breathe, or play with the kids until she forgot all her worries, or be able to sit with Matt without the air being too thick to breathe. But she would settle (she had to settle, she always settled) for a taste of home.

Matt was out of the shower by the time she had served up two bowls. He passed behind Claire, and she had to force herself not to turn and follow the trail of his cologne. She hadn't noticed it yesterday until he was right there, standing over her as she studied Mr. Solano's file, then cradling her in his lap on the train.

She had wanted to drink that smell until it was all she could register. Matt had been so close, then, almost too close to be real, with his hands splayed against her back, his mouth _right there…_

Claire bit her cheek and handed him a bowl.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not too long," he said.

"Are you going to tell Foggy and Karen about last night?"

"Yeah."

Claire squinted at him. " _Today?"_

Matt set down his spoon, lips pressed tight together in annoyance. "They'll only worry—"

"Because you got _shot_ , Matt!"

They stared at each other for a long moment, both unsure what to do with Claire's raised voice. Upstairs, someone ran the length of the hall. Claire closed her eyes and turned back to the pot on the stove.

"All I'm saying is that this…is more serious now. Those men saw me, they know I have help, they're probably going to guess I'm trying to figure out what happened. They're not gonna stop."

"I never expected them to."

" _Okay_ , I'm sorry I'm some ignorant girl who thought we could do this _without_ anyone else getting hurt," Claire snapped, slamming the pot into the sink. She _really_ didn't have the time or the temper to deal with Matt's _I told you so._ Karen had endorsed the plan, and Matt had been _completely_ fine doing the exact same thing himself.

Guilt still chewed at her. If she hadn't insisted on going to the apartment, if she hadn't stopped and waited for Matt to catch up…

The kitchen was quiet for another few long moments.

"I'll tell them tomorrow, after work," Matt said, accepting her hurt and anger like it was the only thing he could ever deserve.

Claire let out a shaky breath. She rinsed the pot and sat down at the table. She refused to look at Matt as she ate.

Matt finished his bowl of avena and put it in the sink. Claire glared into her own bowl, waiting for him to leave. Matt paused behind her, and Claire fought not to tense. She knew she was probably being unreasonable, but she was exhausted and hurt and scared and she didn't know how to fix anything between them so she just stayed quiet.

Matt put a hand on her shoulder.

"I didn't mean to make it sound like this was your fault," he said quietly. "I…was always prepared for the possibility of violence. I'm just glad they didn't get you."

He let go of her shoulder before she could say anything, disappearing into the living room. Claire let out a slow breath. She was ready for this to be over.

Matt left a few minutes later, hesitating by the door.

"I'll be back in a bit," he reminded her.

"Okay. Good-bye."

He smiled at her, like he wanted to say something, then walked out the door.

"Come back safe," she murmured. The apartment felt a little emptier without him.

Claire cleared her bowl and walked back through the living room. She stopped when she saw he had laid out his rosary for her, the wooden beads stained a deep, beautiful red. Claire laughed a little as she picked it up. It was strange to be holding Matt's famed rosary, the one drop of sacredness that entered the profanity of the boxing hall. It felt too personal a thing to have in her hand, too intimate, like she was holding a bit of Matt's very soul.

Her smile faded. He gave her his soul, and yet he could not fathom doing the same with his love. She wrapped her fingers around his rosary, biting back tears. Claire sucked in a breath, then lowered herself to the floor.

Claire prayed there in Matt's living room, her finger tracing over the beads, her tongue almost tripping over the words. She prayed for peace, for safety, for an end to all of this madness. She prayed she wouldn't feel so hurt, prayed that she and Matt would find some resolution that wouldn't leave them aching and bleeding, prayed that her family would be alright.

Claire recited an entire decade, then returned to the bedroom. This time, she allowed herself to climb back into bed and slept for hours.

* * *

Vladimir lit a new cigarette as he watched Wesley climb out of the car. Fisk's favorite step-and-fetch-it always looked too sleek for the criminal life, even when he was flanked by a truck's worth of angry muscle. Vladimir suspected it stemmed from Wesley getting papercuts in some desk job during the war, while everyone else got nightmares and bullet wounds.

Now, though, he didn't look sleek. He looked like he'd personally fought a few rounds with a hellhound and was pissed he was late for tea. Even his bodyguards didn't seem to want to stand by him. Vladimir scoffed and flicked his match away.

" _Easier to deal with, or harder?"_ Anatoly asked in Russian, the mutter barely audible over the slam of car doors.

" _Harder,_ " Vladimir said. " _Always harder with this one."_

"Gentlemen," Wesley said once he was close enough. Vladimir was at least impressed he could fake civility for a second. He looked about ready to rip out someone's throat.

"What's got you worked up?" Vladimir asked.

Wesley breathed in through his nose as he smiled at them. There it was, that perfect mask Fisk paid so much for. Vladimir may have despised the man (not that there was very much he _did_ like in this asswipe of a country), but he certainly valued a pleasant front. _He_ usually had to rely on a snarl and promises of violence to get what he couldn't buy, which didn't work too well with the elite of the country. Which was why he and his brother worked with irritating pricks like Wesley in the first place.

"Just a few hiccups. Nothing to worry about."

"Until the hiccups become coughs and we _all_ get sick," Anatoly drawled.

Wesley gave him a very unimpressed look. "I didn't come to stand around in the cold," he told them flatly.

Vladimir smiled at him and waved them into the warehouse. He'd _actually_ come to make show.

"New guns," Vladimir said around his cigarette. "Faster, nastier. See if you actually catch this _vigilante._ "

He couldn't even keep from rolling his eyes as he said it. The lunatic burning down sills and slaughtering gangsters in the country was no _hero._ Vladimir thought he was just a hitman for some rival rum runners. Fisk's operation was attracting older hands, the ones who had been in the game since the Prohibition had been put into place. Or maybe it was those bastards in Atlantic City who'd done it (they had stolen a shipment of guns from the Ranskahovs earlier that year, and Vladimir intended to be paid back in blood).

Wesley was less amused. " _You_ focus on getting the guns and cars we need. We're still intent on expanding."

"Even with that girl on the loose?" Anatoly asked.

Vladimir leaned back against the crate of guns, taking a long drag as Wesley gave his brother a lethal glare.

"We're _handling_ it. She's just a stupid girl."

"There are more problems than that if your ship has so many leaks," Vladimir said. "You mess up a hit, you have this _vigilante_ destroying your local producers, information is dripping like blood off a dead man. This is not good."

"And what are you saying?" Wesley asked. His voice could have frozen the Hudson.

"I'm _saying_ you're in over your head, and your _employer_ might be eaten alive before he ever has to worry about _really_ protecting his good name."

Wesley stepped a little closer, making Vladimir's men around the room step a little closer.

"If you're implying _you_ are going to try taking up rum smuggling, I'll remind you that you will get _nowhere_ in your glorious homecoming without my employer's money and connections. The revolution is long over, and there aren't many people who believe the royal family will _actually_ reclaim their throne. Don't antagonize the few resources you have left."

Vladimir chuckled a little as he exhaled a breath of smoke. "Yes, the sainted Romanovs will have a hard time stealing back power from the bastard Bolsheviks. But there's always jewels on the brows of kings, and some favors might get them to loosen. Plus, Russia's a forsaken armpit, so I wouldn't hold it hostage _too_ long over anyone's head. You might start to stink."

"Show me what the guns can do," Wesley said, a perfectly careless sneer on his lips.

Vladimir scoffed again, then handed his cigarette to Anatoly. He picked up the gun he'd set out, the pointed it at the other end of the warehouse. A row of store mannequins posed, eerily frozen in various moments of delighted glamour. Vladimir emptied half a clip into them, ripping out stuffing and splintering frames and shredding fabric.

"Nastier," he repeated, then popped out the clip. He set down the gun and took back his cigarette before Anatoly smoked it to his fingertips.

"Very well," Wesley grunted. He waved to one of his men, who stepped forward with two cases of money. Anatoly checked them, then passed the money off to one of their men. Wesley stalked back to his car with a guard, leaving the rest of the men to load the guns on the truck.

"Fix it up," Vladimir called to Wesley's back. "I don't like having to do pest control."

He didn't respond, making Vladimir laugh again. It was a good thing Wesley wasn't a man fueled by his temper, or else the gun he had hidden under his coat would have been emptied into Vladimir's head.

* * *

 _AN oh my gooooooooooooooooooosh i love vladimir so much_


	14. a homesickness, a lovesickness

_AN nothing like a traumatic new bit of canon to motivate you into posting again._

* * *

Matt stared at the pew ahead of him, hands clasped tight.

Service had been good. Father Lantom had a certain way of crafting his sermons that removed all the external guilt. That was likely why Matt was so dutiful in his attendance; he'd probably die if he felt much more guilt in his life. He already wanted to be buried alive, and that was just from a single slip up, one moment when he hadn't guarded his tongue. Who knew how he would feel after something genuinely terrible.

Father Lantom let Matt stew in his seat for a good fifteen minutes before he sat down beside him. Lantom had been kind after Matt returned from war. His son had been overseas as well. Apparently, his letters had stopped sounding like the boy long before they stopped coming at all.

They sat for a long moment, Matt hunched over, hands clutched together like he was begging for mercy. Lantom leaned back, examining the ceiling as he waited for Matt to speak.

"It was a good sermon," Matt said after a moment, voice creaky like it had forgotten how to sound.

"Thank you," Lantom said. "I've been piecing it together for a while."

Matt shifted, making his bullet wound burn. He had found that if he stretched his arm a certain way, pain would slither up into his chest—another attempt at penance.

"What would you do," Matt began, testing the words out, seeing how much they stung, "if doing the right thing…caused something terrible to happen?"

Lantom was quiet a moment. Then he said, "It doesn't sound much like the right thing, then."

"No." Matt shook his head in frustration, rethinking his words. "What if…doing the right thing on a grand scale…caused you to sin?"

"If one thing you do caused good for many people, but difficulties for you?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you're referring to something serious."

"Yes."

"Well, that depends. Will the sin cause harm that can't be undone?"

"Yes," Matt whispered, almost choking on the word. Images of Claire, battered and bruised at his hand, flashed into mind. "Maybe. Likely."

Lantom was quiet for another moment, and Matt chanced a look at him. He was examining the altar, eyebrows furrowed in consideration.

"I haven't known you to be a man that gives into temptation easily, Matthew."

Matt scoffed. Less than a week with Claire in his home, and already Matt felt like his body might betray his soul at any moment. Coveting had never seemed so pernicious as it had the last few days.

"It depends on the temptation," he said darkly.

Lantom considered another moment. "What are the stakes?"

"They're high." Matt didn't want to drag Lantom into this madness, not when the threat was so real.

"What are you afraid of, Matthew?" Lantom asked, finally turning to look at him. They stared at each other, both waiting; Lantom for Matt to speak, Matt to not be so terrified.

"I'm afraid of becoming a monster, Father," Matt said, making himself meet the man's eye. "I can't—I feel this _darkness_ inside me. I told you before the war, it was just…anger, _rage_ that I could hold back, but now…"

"Do you feel compelled to do bad things? Hurt people?"

"No, I just—I get the sense that everything I touch needs to break, and what if—" He bit his cheek and looked away. "It was fine before anyone got close. Now I'm afraid…am I _wrong_ to want to keep her safe?" he asked, suddenly turning to face Lantom again.

"I'd say that's noble. But…what does she want?"

Matt laughed, exhausted. Claire didn't want much, but she deserved plenty.

"She wants something I don't think she understands. And I don't want her to. She trusts me too much for me to break that, and yet every time I try to get close, I'm convinced I'm also getting closer to being something I don't want to be."

"How does this tie into the big thing you were asking about earlier? Is she involved with you sinning?" Lantom asked, shaking his head in confusion.

Matt grit his teeth, frustrated Lantom wasn't understanding. "If I don't keep her safe, I won't be able to live with myself. But _keeping_ her safe almost doesn't feel _worth_ it."

Matt hunched his shoulders. He knew how it sounded. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in helping Claire for its own merit, that was plenty on its own. But the only way he felt certain she was safe was if she was with him, and every burning second she was just a breath away was a second Matt felt his strength falter. The moment he gave in, the moment he kissed her and told her he loved her, that he needed her, that yes, yes, he hated holding her away, yes, he was willing to do _anything…_ That was the moment he started the timer until he lost his mind and found Claire on the receiving end.

What were his alternatives, though? Letting Claire go home, _making_ her go—that was a death sentence. If nothing else, last night had proved that. But sending her somewhere else, to Karen's maybe, was not a risk he wanted to take. And yet, keeping her there, in his home, making food, wearing his clothes, using his things, sleeping in his bed, sitting just close enough for him to put his hand on, willing and eager and _wanting_ his touch—

Matt flinched. He was in a _church,_ for shit's sake _._

"Matthew," Lantom began, the word slow like he was sounding out the place he wanted to step, "I'm afraid I don't follow. You seem…disjointed. Unclear of what you want."

Matt growled and leaned back in the pew, hands raking through his hair and over his face. He _knew_ what he wanted, and he knew he absolutely should not have it.

He had been _fine_ yesterday, that was the terrible truth of it. Men had been shooting at him, he had not been sure if he would live, and yet he had been fine. Matt was at _peace_ with violence, sick and twisted as it was. That was no one Claire should _ever_ be with.

"All of my choices lead to something bad," he said, hands still over his face. "Either she suffers because of someone else, or…"

Lantom didn't make him say it. He sighed through his nose. "Perhaps it is an issue of the devil you know, rather than the devil you don't."

That thought failed spectacularly to satisfy.

They sat for a few moments. Matt dropped his hands to his lap.

"I wish I weren't so broken," he whispered, a confession for all the saints in heaven to hear.

Lantom gave him a hard look, but said nothing.

Matt stood up, grabbing his hat from the pew. He stepped into the aisle, hesitating for a moment. "Thank you, Father, for listening."

"I'm willing to hear the rest, if you'll share," he offered.

Matt forced out a smile and left the church.

He walked the streets. He couldn't go home. His head was too full for him to face Claire and the thousands of problems she wore around her neck. They both needed a break.

Matt's feet found the boxing hall before he knew what he was doing. All the reasons why he shouldn't do this ran through his head, a pretty parade of ' _Matt, do not_ 's.

It was a Sunday, the day of rest. He was still injured from the chase. Foggy would go ballistic if Matt got a black eye right before they appeared in court. Claire wouldn't be happy. Matt would only feel worse afterward.

He found Sweeney and put his name in for a fight.

The boxing hall held a different crowd on Sunday. It took something particularly interesting to lure men out of their chapels and into the gambling dens. Sweeney's weapon of choice was female boxers.

Matt walked by one of the rings, which held a woman waiting for her opponent to enter the ring. A few of the men hooted at her and made requests that she change from her sensible pair of pants and undershirt into a chemise and bloomers. She shot them a rude hand gesture. Rumor was, Sweeney had offered to make her a star and rebrand her as Jewel. She had offered to break all of his teeth.

The hall was hot, even after Matt stripped down to just his pants and shoes. He threw a few punches in a half-hearted attempt to warm up. He didn't see Santino anywhere. That was a relief, at least. The less time that boy spent in places like this, the better. He didn't need to end up like Matt, craving the next fight no matter how hard he tried.

"Murdock, you're up," Sweeney called.

Matt nodded and climbed into a newly empty ring. He couldn't hear anyone placing bets over the dull roar in his head. He eyed his opponent. He was short, with brown hair and broad shoulders. Matt had seen him around, but couldn't remember what he was called. He listened for the fight to be announced, maybe he'd get the man's ring name, but things stopped making sense after he heard his own name.

Daredevil. If he didn't change his behavior, they would cut it in half, leave him exposed for what he truly was.

The Devil of the Ring.

The fight started and Matt walked forward, hands barely up, barely studying his opponent. Just step, step, punch. The man dodged, eyebrows furrowed like he was confused. Matt waited, then threw another punch.

This time, the man shot back. It hit Matt on the mouth, splitting open Matt's partially healed lip. He stumbled back a step, then blocked. He could feel that he wasn't right, that he needed to settle in to focus. He shook his head, hard, but that just made things worse.

It took two rounds before the man finally threw Matt. He landed hard on his back, the world jostling slightly. He closed his eyes.

He didn't even know what he was doing.

Matt waited a few moments after he left the ring to sign up again. He could hear the steady thrum of _don't don't don't_ in his head, but he found Sweeney anyways.

 _"Another_ fight?" the man asked, eyeing Matt with condescending interest. It was the same way a person looked at a particularly tenacious, if arguably stupid, dog.

Matt gave a stiff nod.

Sweeney chuckled and considered, he rubbed his chin, eyeing the rings. "Eh…you'd probably kill Parker if I put you in with him, even _with_ that sorry lickin' you just got."

Matt worked his jaw. He genuinely _despised_ Roscoe Sweeney. He saw the suffering of men and decided to make a penny off it. Which made Matt hate _himself_ a little more, because he kept crawling back.

Sweeney remained oblivious as he picked out another fighter, this one rangy, limbs twitching like he _needed_ to fight, _needed_ to draw blood. Which he did. The man—Fitz-something, William, maybe—had made it a trademark to be as savage as possible. Matt ran his tongue over his teeth. The numbness in his chest burned away into something ugly, something with horns and fangs and senseless destruction.

Matt thought about holding it back ( _what would Claire think?_ ) about retaining some decency ( _what does it matter, she probably hates you at the moment, anyway_ ), but the impulse faded as he stared at the other fighter. Cocky, careless, thinking his brutality and strength would get him through. Fitzwilliam laughed and postured for the crowd, somehow missing the wrath boiling off Matt's shoulders.

What did it matter, he was working his way to hell anyway. He couldn't have what he wanted, couldn't be good and happy and decent and safe. He couldn't stay away from the fights, couldn't control the gangsters chasing Claire, couldn't even _have_ Claire because he knew, he _knew_ that one day the hate and anger raging in his chest would fall onto her.

Matt stepped forward for the beginning of the round.

Then he was being hauled off Fitzwilliam— _was_ it Fitzwilliam? It had to be, there was no one else it _could_ be, but his face, oh hell, what had happened to his _face_ —

People restrained Matt from behind, yanking his arms back. He fought against them, first to keep fighting, then to get away. There was shouting and howling, men demanding more or declaring that he was an animal. He _felt_ like an animal, terrified and desperate and needing to get away from the noise.

He wrenched himself free and stormed from the ring. He ignored his prize, held shakily before him. What had he done, he should have gone back, there were so many people in the way, why did he fight he wanted to go back he needed to leave could the people just move what had he done what had he done what had he _done._

He burst from the hall, panting as he stormed away from the doors. The still-cold April wind made him shiver. He paced a moment, ignoring the stares from some men farther down the road. They were smoking, he wanted a cigarette, _why_ had he given up cigarettes, he wanted to smoke one down to his fingertips, he wanted to smoke and drink and fight and have a _reason_ for feeling like this.

He fell back against the wall, breaths coming hard. The concrete scraped against his shoulders, but he made himself stay there, propped up on pain and perseverance.

He ground his palms into his eyes, plunging himself in damnable, controllable darkness before lights popped into existence, gritty and mocking.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to sit on the couch and hold Claire and say nothing because his whole _world_ was flying apart and he did not know what to do.

"Well, that was a damn spectacle."

Matt looked up at the voice, struggling to see a moment after he took his hands away.

It was Frank, posture completely unimpressed as he loped closer. He was wearing a shirt, but it was more of a sloppy formality than anything. The sleeves were haphazardly rolled around his elbows, and it looked like he'd tucked the tails into his pants with a half-hearted swipe. He had a flask in his hand.

"Never seen _you_ act like that," Frank continued, settling near Matt on the wall. "The others? Sure. But you bury your crazy in church."

"You think that was from _shell shock?_ " Matt asked, the words like vinegar on his tongue. He pursed his lips, hating how shaky his voice was.

Frank shrugged and took a sip from the flask. Matt let go of the breath he was still holding.

"Have you…you ever blacked out like that?" Matt asked. "Moved, and yet…not realize it?"

"Nah."

Matt closed his eyes, wishing Frank's brutal honesty had at least a little room for gentleness.

"So why're you out here?" Matt asked. "They tell you to make sure I behave?"

Frank scoffed. "No one thinks you're _that_ dangerous."

Matt suspected Fitzsomething might.

"Nah, I just wanted some place to drink this without getting hounded by everyone for a drop. Been through enough shit this week."

Matt glanced at Frank again, surprised to notice the surly bruises on his face. They were a few days old, his blackened eyes fading to sickly yellow on the edges.

"Who gave you _those_?" Matt asked. Frank wasn't the sort of person that readily gave in to a pummeling.

Frank shrugged, eyes skittering over the street, looking for Germans, looking for mortars, looking for the newest threat. He ran his tongue over his teeth and said, "A determined son of a bitch."

Matt sighed out a breath, thoughts already moving on when Frank asked, "Who gave you that cut on your shoulder?"

Matt stiffened, recalling the graze of a bullet wound he had on his arm. He glanced at it, dully noting the blood dotting the bandage. He hadn't noticed the pain of it since…he didn't know, really.

"I dunno," he said lightly. "Sounds like the same person as you."

Frank scoffed again, eyes still on the alley. "Your shit luck, then."

He took another sip, then offered it to Matt. Matt took it on reflex, the act so reminiscent of the war. Two soldiers, wounded and weary, waiting for the sun, waiting for the madness to cease, waiting for the war to be over. Matt grimaced at the burn of the alcohol, then his eyes widened. It wasn't some flask of bathtub gin that usually circulated the boxing hall, watered down, bitter, and borderline lethal. It was _bourbon,_ the kind smuggled in from Canada and _far_ too rich for Matt's blood _._

He stared at Frank, who actually let himself laugh.

"That's not coffin varnish," Matt said, mind wheeling back to the tales of Frank's personal war against bootlegging. What was _he_ doing with expensive stuff? Or alcohol at all, for that matter?

"I never really got into that 'body as a temple' thing, but I'd have to have a death wish before I started drinkin' that stuff," Frank said.

Matt nodded and handed back the flask. He had considered drowning his sorrows when he came back, except the Prohibition had gone into effect overnight, and the hassle hadn't seemed worth it.

"How'd you get it?" Matt asked.

Frank shrugged, eyes sliding away from his face again. Frank Castle might have had eyes that saw everything, but he never liked meeting anyone's gaze. Matt couldn't blame him. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then everyone they met must have caught sight of carnage and mayhem.

"I thought you were a teetotaler," Matt said, tilting his head.

Frank shook his head, wearing something between a grimace and smile. "I hate the _rumrunners,_ not the stuff they're packin'."

It was Matt's turn to scoff. "I get that," he sighed. He hesitated, tempted to ask for another swig of bourbon. Alcohol wasn't part of his life out of sheer habit, but it some days it the thought of a stiff drink was the only way to get out of bed.

Matt froze. Claire would hate knowing he'd been off at a fight, but smelling the bourbon on his breath would probably make her go ballistic.

 _Great._

"How's Temple?" Frank asked.

Matt jumped, eyes snapping up. Frank was relaxed and indifferent as he watched Matt's alarm.

"Uh—uhm, _Claire_?"

Did Frank know? How did he know? Had Santino let slip that Claire was staying with Matt? He hadn't expected her family to share that news, but—

" _Yeah,_ " Frank said. "She's the only one. Haven't seen her around, lately. Her or Velasquez."

"I—I dunno," Matt said. "Fine? I haven't seen her in…a while."

"Ah-huh." Frank looked back down the alley, took another sip of bourbon. "You get tired of spewing that bullshit?"

Matt set his jaw and stared at Frank, who shot him a sideways look.

"Come _on_ , Red. Half the hall knows you're goofy for each other. One week, you're trippin' over each other, the next, Temple doesn't show up, you're in a daze, Velasquez is so distracted he can barely hit a wall, _then_ you show up like you've had a falling out with your old lady. So I ask again. How's Temple?"

Matt closed his mouth and grimaced down the alleyway. He couldn't help but feel a wriggle of conflict at Frank's words. On one hand, he had to wonder if they were all _that_ transparent. Could they be so easily traced if someone knew the right string to pull? And then another part of him squirmed at the implication in Frank's words. It wasn't like they had _done_ something and Claire had moved in to hide from her disappointed family. They weren't stepping out with each other, not if he could help it, they just…

"It's not like that," he said ( _Why? Why, why, what a stupid thing to say you're a damn disgrace as a lawyer_ ). He leaned his head back against the wall. "Shit, it's a lot of things, but it's not like that."

If only that were entirely true.

Frank gave an unimpressed grunt.

"But…she's okay," Matt said, needing to get that strange, overwhelming attention off him. "She's safe."

Frank gave him a long look. "That's a specific word to use there, Red."

"Yeah, well, it's a specific set of circumstances."

Matt pushed himself upright, eager to leave the conversation, but also sensing there was something more hiding under Frank's words.

"What is it you do again?" Frank asked.

"I'm an attorney," Matt said, surprised at the sudden change in topic. "Nelson and Murdock." He stood very still, wondering for a moment if this was when Frank startled and took flight.

But Frank just shrugged, settled back where he stood, and took a sip from the flask. He seemed satisfied at Matt's answers, vague as they were.

Matt considered him a moment, head tilted. "Where'd you get the bourbon, Frank?"

They watched each other, Frank's head tipped back like he was assessing what risk and reward Matt posed. He settled on an answer and said, "From the source. There was one hell of a discount."

So the rumors were true, then. He really did rage against the rum runners and _—_

Matt drew in a slow breath, suddenly remembering the papers, the slew of articles about the vigilante that used violence to stop bootleggers. The one that Karen thought was being fed to the papers about Solano's murder, as a sort of double-edged smoke screen.

No. There was no way—not for _real_. Nothing could be so neat (although, Matt couldn't _really_ describe the past week's events as ' _neat')._

Matt steeled himself, then took a leap. "Are you the vigilante?" he asked, voice a little quieter than before. "The one that's in all the papers?"

Frank looked at him, a wickedly wry smile on his face. "The one that killed the tailor?"

"I know that can't have been you."

"And why're you saying that, Red?"

"I saw it happen," Matt whispered, blood running cold.

Frank watched him a moment, all of his bits of information clicking into place. He looked up at the miserable sky.

"Huh." He looked back at Matt. "And you said Temple's safe?"

"Yes." Matt waited, fists clenched at his sides.

"Get on home, Red," Frank said, pushing himself off the wall and headed toward the end of the building. "Use your winnings to buy her some damn flowers."

Matt hesitated, then walked back inside.

He didn't buy Claire flowers. It felt too much like a slap in the face, after all they had just fought about. But he did buy her oranges, which could at least be seen as a show of peace.

The apartment was dark when Matt walked in. Surly rain clouds had risen up as he returned home, an echo of the day before. He set the oranges on the table. He meandered through the kitchen before he braved the living room.

Claire was curled up on the couch, silently thumbing through Solano's journal. He stopped in the doorway.

They eyed each other, not saying a word. Claire had changed into a simple green dress, her hair hanging loose past her shoulders. There was a weariness to her eyes. He could only guess what _he_ looked like, with his lip split, his shoulders tense, and his knuckles bleeding.

"You went to the boxing hall," she murmured, the words as flat and condemning as they needed to be.

"I bought oranges," he said, the best sort of apology he could give.

Claire looked down at Solano's journal. "You bought oranges," she repeated.

Claire slid her legs off the couch and stood. Matt watched her, helpless, waiting for her to leave the room. He deserved it. He deserved any form of warfare she had to give. That's all men like him were good for, these days.

Instead, she asked, "Where do you keep the medical supplies?

Matt blinked at her, then pulled the battered medical tin from the shelf. She took it, still avoiding his gaze.

"You might want to take off your coat," she told him.

He startled, then shrugged out of it. He hung it up, then returned to find her sitting at the kitchen table. The bag of oranges sat open, tempting the air with a smell like love and sunshine.

"Is it just your mouth and hands?" she asked, filling a dish with water.

"Yeah," he mumbled. He sat down, eyes tracking her, afraid to speak. If she noticed the stolen swig of bourbon on his breath, she didn't say anything.

When Claire sat across from him, Matt realized she no longer smelled like lavender. Bit by bit, she had lost that scent to the bland freshness of his own soap. The thought hurt a little for too many reasons for him to count.

He expected her touch to be rough, but instead it was kind. Claire, the kind, practical, unnecessarily compassionate saint that she was, had no hate left in her. Not for him, not for the suffering he knowingly put her through.

He ran his tongue over his teeth. His discussion with Father Lantom kept ringing in his head, about suffering and sinning and what was worth it. Claire was worth keeping but more importantly Claire was worth keeping safe and he didn't know how to do both at the same time and he didn't want to risk making a mistake.

Claire carefully dabbed at his lip, intent only on tending his hurt. Matt focused on his breathing, his eyes tracing the grain of the table. It took him a long moment before he was strong enough to look up.

Their eyes met for a long, breathless moment. There was sadness in Claire's eyes, dark and beautiful and tragic. Underneath, though, was the steely strength that had made him fall in love.

He was tempted to look back down, remembering that his eyes revealed too much, that they showed all of the horror he had seen. But Claire knew that already. She knew, had guessed, probably suspected, that the suffering he had witnessed had cut its way into Matt's soul, leaving it deformed, hollow, and blackened. And yet she looked.

It was enough to tempt him. Everything about her was enough to tempt him. But temptations weren't actions and he was strong enough not to give in. He could— _would_ —survive. As painful and difficult as this all was…he would keep putting himself through this. Of course he would. No one had died of a broken heart before, even if it was because they never let themselves have love.

Claire's eyes flickered for a moment, dropping down to his battered hands. Her eyebrows furrowed as she asked, "Do you…normally go to the boxing hall on Sunday?"

"No," he murmured, the word a rasp in his throat.

She nodded, hesitated, then asked, "And don't you have a court date later this week?"

"Yeah," he said, surprised that she had remembered. "Foggy's going to hate it."

He paused, afraid to let the conversation stop, because things always turned dangerous when they fell silent. Usually because that was when he tried to kiss her.

"Why?" he asked. "Do you disapprove?"

Claire cut him a look that stopped his breath a moment. "It's not really my place to disapprove."

Matt closed his eyes. "I…didn't mean it like that."

Claire's shoulders remained rigid for a moment before slowly sinking.

"I…I know. I just—yesterday was hard." She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. "Reading Mr. Solano's journal…he knew he got in deep with bad people, but he couldn't find a way out and it—" She sucked in a shaky breath and leaned back in her chair.

"It sounds like us," he whispered.

Claire cracked a smile made of fear and flint. "Hopefully we find a better end."

Matt smiled back, watching her in all her sadness. "If there is any way, I'll find it."

They were quiet for a moment, tangled in something that was equal parts discomfort and unquestioning trust. That was what made them work, Matt thought—they trusted each other more than life itself, because they had no other choice. And because it was the only aspect of their idealized, impossible future that they could cling to.

Matt looked down at his bandaged hands. He wasn't sure what to do next. He knew he should tell her about his suspicions regarding Frank, but it didn't feel right. Now was a time for silence and comfort, not theories and plans. Only, he didn't know how effective his comfort could be, pointedly lopsided as it was.

Claire blinked hard, her hands jumping up as though she could push her tears back. "I'm so tired of _crying_ ," she laughed, the sound almost sticking in her throat.

Matt leaned forward on impulse, then caught himself. The rational part of him screamed distance, while everything else begged for him to wipe her tears away.

Claire spared him the trouble by hurriedly walking to the living room. Matt stared at the still open tin on the table. He listened for a moment, unsure what he would do if he heard her sobbing. But Claire was quiet, biting back her unhappiness and fear.

Matt put away the medical supplies. He returned to the table and picked up an orange. He hesitated, then peeled it. He carried the fruit into the living room, then sat beside Claire.

She was rigid, shoulders taut as she waited for his next move. He offered her half of the orange, barely daring to look at her. Claire hesitated, then took it. She relaxed slightly, just allowing her side to rest against his.

Matt took a deep breath. He had said a lot about him and Claire over the last day, had threatened and promised and sworn so many things that they all blurred together, losing definition. And yet, his actions cut through them all, craving the closeness Claire so freely gave.

He loved her. That rang true in the shrapnel of his mind, so desperately honest he ached with the need to confess it. He loved her more than he thought a human able, and she knew it. She could probably see it in his face whenever he looked at her, feel it in his hands whenever they touched. That was probably why she had looked so wounded when he pushed her away the day before.

He still hadn't apologized for that, not really. He didn't know how, not when he _wasn't_ sorry for trying to keep her safe. He just wished the methods weren't so cruel.

Claire rested her head on his shoulder, toying with the orange slices still in her hand. "I never expected things to be so hard," she whispered.

He closed his eyes. He knew their situation would only get harder before they were easier, but at the moment, he couldn't imagine anything more difficult than this.

* * *

 _Due to the high demand of alcohol and the fact that the production and sale operated entirely on the black market, there was no quality control for alcohol during the Prohibition. The best alcohol was generally smuggled into the country, typically from Canada and Mexico, but on occasion from European countries as well. This was exceptionally expensive, however, so most gin joints opted for either watering down their product to make it last or buying from dubious sellers. 'Bathtub gin' became a catch-all term for cheap alcohol made at home by amateur producers. It was often bad tasting, and on occasion was even toxic._


	15. love, look away

_AN matt ya need a nap._

 _Also, chapter fifteen! Landmarks! Thanks to people who waited for me! Celebration!_

* * *

The next morning was better, and worse. It was better in that he and Claire had again found some sort of resting place, an island in the increasingly tempestuous sea of _them._ If he ignored the fact that the island was quickly dissolving beneath his feet and he would have to confront whatever this was head on, then he was fine. But it was also worse in that Matt had to face Karen and Foggy.

Karen, to her credit, didn't say anything about his bruised mouth and tired eyes when he walked in. She gave him a hard look, then carefully asked, "How was your weekend?"

"Fine. Any news?"

Her gaze hardened a little more, unhappy at his dismissal. " _The Harlem Echo_ called again," she said, and Matt wasn't sure if he was just imagining the coolness in her voice. "They're determined to get word about Dugan."

"Just keep brushing them off," Matt sighed. "They'll get everything they need when we go to court."

Karen eyed him, clearly toying with the idea of asking more explicitly what had happened, but she just nodded and went back to her work. Though she was by default nosy in her do-gooding, she knew which things to press and to leave alone.

Foggy had less grace.

"Good morning, Karen! Good—what the hell, Matt."

Matt took another sip of his coffee, like he could hide the cut on his mouth from Foggy's memory.

" _Matt,_ " Foggy said, roughly hanging up his coat and marching over, "what happened." A flicker of concern crossed his face. "Is Claire okay?"

Matt flinched. Of course. Of course Foggy would assume this was the product of Matt and Claire's recent misadventure. He would have no reason to think—to fear—that Matt had indulged in the barbarity of the rings.

Foggy glanced at Karen, searching for more information. She just shrugged and shook her head. Matt had only been in the room for perhaps a minute longer than Foggy. Maybe she had been silent out of dread, biding her time until the tragic truth came out. Although, Matt couldn't really imagine that he would go to work just days after Claire dying.

He couldn't imagine himself doing anything, really.

"Yeah," Matt grunted. "Yeah, Claire's fine. This…we're okay."

"What happened, then?" Karen asked.

"We…went to the tailors, but didn't find anything. Then Claire suggested we go to Solano's house, which was only a couple blocks away." He could feel them tense as his story unwound, the air getting thicker with fear.

"We found what we were looking for—a whole file on the gangsters that killed him. But…there were people watching the house, and they came after us."

He held his breath as he waited for them to explode, to call him an idiot, to yell at him for letting Claire talk him into risking their lives. But Karen and Foggy remained very quiet, staring at him.

"What happened, Matt?" Karen repeated.

"We got away," he said simply, giving them the smallest smile. "Claire's fine, they never touched her, and I…" He shrugged, feeling the spread of bruises on his side and the gun wound on his arm. "We escaped on the train."

"And they saw you? They definitely _knew_ it was her?"

"Probably."

Karen stood up, almost knocking back her chair in her haste. "We need to move her family, _now._ I'm such an _idiot_ , I can't believe I didn't think of this first thing!"

"What?" Foggy asked, turning to face her.

"Claire's family. It's a _miracle_ those thugs haven't gotten them already. _Shit,_ I'm such an idiot!" She grabbed her coat and faced the boys.

"Matt, where does she live?"

"I—uhm, I didn't catch the address, but why _you?"_

"Because we don't exactly know anyone else that will blend in, those thugs know you, and Foggy might scare her family."

"Wait _,_ what's wrong with _me_?" Foggy demanded, expression both surprised and a little ruffled. "The only things _I_ scare are made of bread and frosting!"

"And a family whose daughter is being hunted by white gangsters," she said, walking back to the desk. She picked up the phone. "Do you think Claire will answer?"

"Uh— _maybe,_ " Matt said, still a little dazed at the sudden whirlwind of activity. He was so used to having to do this _alone,_ waiting and planning in the quiet with Claire. "We never talked about me calling, but…she might."

Karen nodded, thinking. "Who was the gangster Solano wrote about?"

"Fisk," Matt said. "Something Fisk."

"Wilson Fisk?" Foggy demanded. "The guy that's been building schools and parks and stuff for kids?"

Karen swore again and started dialing Matt's apartment. "This is not good. Alright. I'm going to get Claire's address and get her family settled, I should be back by the end of the day. You two stay focused on Dugan's case."

"But— _Karen_ ," Foggy sputtered, as she asked the phone operator to dial Matt's place, "what if those maniacs come after _you?"_

"I can handle myself. Really, Foggy. I've got some friends that can hide the Temples—hi, Claire? This is Karen Page, from Matt's office. Yes, I didn't mean to alarm you, but I think it's a good idea if…"

Matt turned to his office as Karen went on, asking for details and reassurances she could give Claire's family. A part of him wanted to ask how she sounded, wanted to know if the melancholy Matt always heard in Claire's voice was tangible to other people's ears.

But he couldn't do that. It was getting harder and harder to remember, but he could not ask about her and check on her and think about kissing her all day, and then push her away and make her cry and yell the next.

Matt stared at his desk as Karen finished the conversation, said good-bye to Foggy, and left the office. He needed to get to work on the case. Just a few days, and they would be in court arguing that Timothy Dugan was a good man, a respectable veteran, and not at all guilty of the frankly trumped up charges of assault. The drunken disorderly charge would be a taller order to sell, but people's heartstrings were fickle things.

He closed his eyes. He didn't want be at work worrying about Dugan. He wanted to be home with Claire. But if he was with Claire, then his needle fine resistance toward her would be weakened and worn. He had to get to work. But was Claire okay? Karen's worry about her family had put Matt's teeth on edge. No, no, he should _not_ call her back, he should _not_ check on her during his lunch. Work. Claire. No Claire. Work. _Claire._ No, _no_ Claire.

The door to his office clicked open. Matt worked his jaw a moment, and decided he simply didn't have the strength to fake a smile and act like he was fine. He could feel Foggy watching him with an expression that was probably unreadable for its unhappiness.

Matt refused to look up.

"What's all this about?" Foggy asked.

There was no condemnation or judgment in his voice. Matt wished there was. He couldn't stand this ceaseless parade of acceptance and understanding _._ Everyone was too damn accommodating, letting him get away with _everything._ Claire, Karen, Foggy, even _Frank_ was letting him glide on by, and Matt was sick of it. He was being punished so much by his own brain, why couldn't—why _wouldn't_ the outside world do the same.

"What do you mean?" Matt said, pushing Foggy a little farther.

Foggy gave him a look and stepped into the room. He put his hands in his pockets, surveying the walls as he thought.

"Y'know, I saw the way you were with Claire."

Matt stayed quiet, jaw ticking. Foggy glanced at him, a ' _really now?'_ look on his face.

"You're rash, Matt, but you wouldn't normally walk someone into a situation where you knew they would get hurt. And yet, you also get really dumb around girls you like."

"There's nothing going on between us," Matt sighed, pressing his fingers against his eyes.

"Yeah, I kinda guessed that. You looked ready to tear apart anything that might hurt her. But you also…didn't seem comfortable around her."

"It's not exactly a comfortable position I'm in."

"Hm." Foggy looked back at him, eyes undoing all the careful disguises Matt had put into place. "You look like hell, Matt."

"Hate to break it to you, but you don't look much better, Fog."

"Yeah, but _I_ don't look like I'm living in a war zone."

Matt looked away. "What's that got to do with—"

"Look, I'm not trying to pry, but just…it's _okay_ to let someone else get near you, you know that?"

"What happened to you always lecturing me to leave girls alone?" Matt said, voice almost desperate. He had thought Foggy, ever the voice of staunch pragmatism, would tell him no, would support Matt's belief that _he should not._ And yet, here they were.

Matt felt the island slip away a little more.

"That was ten years ago," Foggy said, instead of ' _the war happened, is what'_.

"Why're you lecturing me, Foggy?" Matt asked, giving him a hard look. "You don't even know what's going on."

" _Horsefeathers,_ " Foggy said, the contempt in his voice making the word sharp. "I know enough of what's going on. She asked you to walk into what was likely a trap and you went. She's living in your house, she's the only thing you think about all day. _And,_ " Foggy said, cutting over Matt's protests, "I know that it's _okay._ You've been alone for years, Matt. It's okay for you to let someone in now."

Matt shook his head, biting his cheek. Somehow, his voice was steady as he recited his denial, his mantra, his watchword even though he knew it was not true.

"There's nothing going on. I promise you. Once she's safe, she'll—she'll be back to her own life. I don't factor into that in the slightest."

There was nothing going on because he wouldn't let it, because he pretended there was nothing _to_ go on. And every second he did was another second he felt like his world was on fire. He was cracking at the edges, and his options both resulted in utter devastation. The only difference was how soon it all began.

Foggy gave him a long look. "Matt. Come on. Look at me."

Matt blinked, realizing he was staring unseeingly at his lap. He unclenched his fingertips from his thighs, arms shaking from how tightly he had been holding them. He relaxed his hands and set them on the desk.

Foggy's voice was suddenly soft when he spoke next, like maybe he thought he saw something exposed in Matt's face and didn't want to wound. "You've been alone a long time, Matt. You've _made_ yourself be alone. You came back from the war, and it's been hard, hell, I _get_ that. The stuff you saw…" Foggy shook his head. "But Matt, it's been a long time since then. And you haven't trusted anyone to get closer to you. I _know_ you like Claire. There's no shame in admitting it."

"What about you?" he asked, praying that his sudden change of tact would send Foggy off balance. "How is what I'm doing any different from you and Karen?"

Foggy stared at him, mouth working but no sound coming out for a long moment. "I—I…that's different."

"And how's _that?"_

"I'm not denying it, for one."

Matt looked away. Foggy wasn't wrong. Then again, there weren't many times he was.

They were both quiet. Foggy ran a hand over his hair, smoothing back the bits that had fallen astray. "Why is it so hard for us to love the women we do?" he murmured.

Matt slid him an exhausted, crooked smile, because Foggy wasn't asking _him,_ desperate and answerless as he was. It was a query cast out to the world in general. Why were there so many terrible obstacles banning people from happiness? Why could they never seem to be overcome?

Matt stood up, palms braced against the top of his desk. He let out a long, slow breath, then looked at Foggy. The only way to get Foggy to leave him alone was to be honest, and though it felt suspiciously like losing a battle, Matt was sure it would help him win the war.

"I just can't let myself do this right now," Matt said. "I can't do that to her, can't trick her into thinking I—" The words caught in his throat—too much honesty, he needed to pull it back, be truthful but not honest _,_ not _exposed—_ so he swallowed and tried again. "I'm tired, Foggy. I don't really have the energy to go through this right now."

Which was true, but didn't mean he wouldn't keep going through it over and over and over again in his head.

Foggy watched him a long moment, unhappy at his evasion, but also sensing he couldn't get more out of him.

"Fair enough," he said, shaking his head. "Alright, you go ahead and just…keep stewing, I suppose. But from my point of view…I really don't think it would be as bad as you're thinking."

Matt smiled again, more broken than before, because Foggy had yet to see the inside of his head.

* * *

 _AN if you look close you can see the point in the chapter where i went OH WAIT and had to do a good bit of patching to even pretend that this was vaguely realistic and feasible._

 _look. it's not the villains that are completely dumb and inept. it's me._


End file.
